


Gone

by besame_bj



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Drama, Mystery, Season/Series 03, Spoilers, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-10
Updated: 2006-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besame_bj/pseuds/besame_bj
Summary: Why is Justin wandering the streets of Pittsburgh? Where's Ethan? Where's Brian? Why isn'tsomeonehelping him?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

**One: Wednesday, December 17**

Running down the alley, my head pounds so hard I'm sure it's gonna explode. Still, I run. I know there's danger somewhere, that someone's after me, that I have to get away from him, and get away fast. Blinking against the sun's harsh glare, stumbling like my feet no longer know how to work, I splash through a trail of water just before I emerge onto the street. Fuck, I have to get out of here, but, why? That's the crazy thing. I don't know _why_.  
  
Moving fast, I head down the busy street, inhaling sharp odors: exhaust fumes, garlicky pizza, rotting garbage. Where am I? Shit, I don't even know where I am! As I dart between people, not quite running because I might attract attention, but propelling myself forward at a rapid pace, I try to get my bearings. OK, I'm on Liberty—West Liberty, it looks like. For a second, I glance up. It's a cold, damp, overcast day with lots of dark clouds hanging in the sky. It'll snow soon, but I've got bigger problems than that. An enormous guy blocks my way, but I zip around him, not stealing a glance behind, though I want to, but, shit, I'd have no idea who to look for. Breathing a little hard, my mind is whirling and I realize there's a metallic taste in my mouth. Fuck. Did I bite my tongue? Just what the hell is going on?  
  
Okay, focus. I need to focus.  
  
Liberty. Right. I know Liberty well. Sometimes, Brian and I walk it together. Or we used to right after I moved in, when I was still so fucked up with the PTSD. Wait … shit! Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm having one of those flashback episodes? As I hurry around people, I try to remember the last time that happened, but it's been so long I can't recall. I got better after I moved in with Brian, and we worked on it together, walking around the neighborhood just to give me the practice so I wouldn't shake like such a wuss every time someone touched me. Now I'm in my first year of college—computer graphics—and doing well. Things have settled down, life is good. So why am I hurrying down West Liberty convinced someone's after me? That's the fucked up thing. I don't know _who_. Something's wrong, but I don't know _what_. I'm just running like a scared rabbit.  
  
Should I stay on Liberty 'til I get closer to Woody's, the diner, all the familiar places I know so well? They're still many blocks away, but I could find someone there if I did, right? Someone to talk to, someone I trust. Maybe they'd help me figure out why everything's so confusing, why I feel this way. God, my head hurts. I touch my forehead, and, yeah, there's a bump there. I hit my head? Why didn't I figure that out sooner? Did it happen back there, before I started running? But _where_ exactly was I? I don't even know, but, yeah, that might be it. If I hit my head, maybe I'm badly fucked up. Should I look for a cop? See if they can call 911? Maybe I'm doing something really stupid by running away like this.  
  
No! Something tells me _no_ , but I don't know what it is. Are the cops after me? Fuck, I'm not a criminal. I'm not running from the law, am I? No, that's ridiculous. I'm Justin Taylor, I'm eighteen, and I live at 6 Tremont Street with Brian Kinney. My mother sells real estate and my little sister … well, she's a brat. Except for the fact that I'm gay and some people think that makes me a pervert—and they'd be wrong about that—I'm perfectly normal. Everyone knows that. Well, everyone except for Brian. He thinks _I'm_ the brat.  
  
I touch my forehead again, fingertips grazing the swollen area as I try to assess how bad it is, and my next thought is immediate: _What the fuck is wrong with my hair?_ Stopping at a storefront, I stare into the glass, shocked by what I see. My God. It's long! My hair is long. I reach up and touch it. Long and very blond, the way I always secretly wanted to wear it, but never could. Dad wouldn't allow it, not to mention St. James frowning on anything that looked girly. Then the bashing made it impossible, since the right side of my head had been shaved. I touch that side, just to make sure my scar's still there. Yes, I feel the raised edge. Okay, I'm still me, but I'm me with long, blond hair. Squinting, I examine myself. Black coat, blue scarf, sweater, and cargoes. Not my normal clothing, but at least I don't have on a pink tutu. Then I realize something else. I hold up my hand and examine it. What the fuck happened? Why do I have little cuts on my palm like I tried to grab a porcupine? God, this is all so weird!  
  
In the window's reflection, I see the stoplight change at the corner and turn, running to cross the street while the traffic's not moving. My brain feels even more scrambled, and, fuck, as I swallow, I realize my throat hurts too. Do I have some virus that brings on amnesia? God, this is nuts! I have to find someone. If my brain isn't fully functioning then I need help. Yet, the minute I have the thought, I _know_ I have to be careful, that I can't trust everyone I used to trust, that there's danger. But how do I know? And why the fuck should I believe it?  
  
Once I hit the other side of the street, I keep walking fast. Jamming my hands in my pockets, I check for something, anything that'll give me more information. Where's my backpack? I'm almost never without it. I've got nothing except … my fingers glide over cold, smooth metal. I pull it out. A cell phone? Since when did I carry a cell phone? It's a fancy one, too, one like I've never seen before. Fancier, even, than Brian's, and his is always the latest and most expensive model. It's thin, brushed stainless steel, and has a strange button near the bottom that says, "Archive Retrieval." Plus, I don't see anything on it that tells me the name of the provider. Scrolling through the menu, I find a bunch of names and numbers that are foreign to me. Vance Gardner? Jim Stockwell? Ben Bruckner? Who are they? Marvin Telson. Claire Kinney. Debbie Novotny. Okay, those people I know. Fuck, this _is_ Brian's cell phone. How'd I end up with it? Shit, he'll kill me. Working from memory, I dial the loft's number.  
  
I hear Brian's voice: "Leave a message." Then the beep.  
  
"Brian?" Licking my lips, I continue to walk, still looking over my shoulder, still concerned that someone I wouldn't recognize could walk right up to me. Someone dangerous. "I don't know where I am. Someplace on West Liberty. Near … no, not near … I don't know. Near Liberty and Maddock, I think, close to that Mexican place? Something's wrong. Are you there? Please pick up." I wait, feeling a tickle at the back of my throat, wishing I had water. I must be getting sick and this is all so fucked! "Brian? I don't know what to do." My voice cracks. I wait another moment then close the phone. Shit.  
  
Everything's jumbled, nothing's clear. All I know is that I have to get away. If I don't trust my instincts, I don't have much left to trust so I keep on moving. A minute later, I hear the roar of a bus and realize there's a shelter up ahead. Sprinting, I'm there before the bus arrives and wait in line with several people, breathing hard as I sneeze several times, the cutting winter wind whipping around me. Shit, this is seriously freaking me out. As I board the bus, I fish some ones out of my pocket and push them into the slot. I don't even know where this bus is going.  
  
My head is still pounding as I look for a seat.


	2. Two

**Two: Friday, December 19**

  
When I get back from the men's room, Carla's waiting for me. As I've done for the last two days, I first look around the Greyhound Bus terminal where I ended up hiding out. Trying to assess the danger, I search for anyone who might be looking for me, whose eyes might linger too long. It's a pretty public place, and often filled with lots of people who make good cover, but I've learned to be careful. No, I don't see anyone who looks suspicious, although, fuck, I still have no idea what this so-called "bad" person might look like.  
  
"I brought you something." Carla works at the ticket counter and, even in two days time, we've gotten to know each other pretty well. A heavy-set black woman, maybe in her forties, her face is shiny, a soft cocoa color, her red lipstick a vivid contrast. I like looking at her because there are so many possibilities in her face. I want to draw her, but, of course, the only drawing materials I have are a small notebook and pencil. She hands me a bag that says _Morgan's Deli_ on the side. "It's soup and bread." Her smile widens, those pencil-thin eyebrows rising. "And a Coke." She knows I like Coke.  
  
Taking the package, I peek inside and feel the moist heat from the soup hit my face. Thanks to the cold that's now fully developed, I can't smell anything. "That's really nice. You didn't have to do that."  
  
"Sure I did." Carla has that crease between her eyes, the one she gets when she looks at me too long. She thinks I'm a runaway and I haven't done anything to make her think otherwise. I didn't tell her that I went to my mom's townhouse yesterday, that I walked around looking for an open window, that I discovered Mom had the place alarmed. When did that happen? She hasn't really been in the house that long.   
  
Carla hasn't called the police on me because she has a nephew who was put in "the system" and doesn't have a whole lot of sympathy for what the State does to kids. She also thinks I'm sixteen and maybe have mental problems. I know I'm not sixteen, but as for the rest, well, fuck, I really wonder. "You hear back from that friend of yours?" she asks now, dropping down next to me on one of the black metal benches.  
  
Shaking my head, I set down the bag before taking out the Coke. I've been calling Brian for two days now, but he's not there or he's not answering or something. And his cell phone number must've changed because the one I remember isn't working. Then, I think, fuck, _I've_ got his cell phone so how can I call him? More confusion. I've called Mom too—the other person I know I can trust. Same thing except in her case both her phones are going directly to voicemail. They're both gone. Did they go on vacation? At Christmas time? That seems strange, especially for Mom. Oh, and, I'm three-for-three because Daph's not around either. Her phone number at the apartment, which she just had turned on a few weeks ago—or, at least, that's what I remember—has been disconnected. When I called her parents, they thought I was joking, like I should know where she is. Then they sounded concerned so I got off the phone fast. God, I'm so freaked out by all of this. Maybe I _have_ gone crazy.   
  
"You ought to go over to where he lives," Carla says as she pats my shoulder. "What if his machine is broken?" She knows all about my attempts to contact Brian, but she thinks he's just a friend.   
  
"That's possible, I guess." I pull the tab on the Coke's top and take a sip, but it tastes like fizzy water. The cold liquid makes me cough, too, which turns into a spasm and causes Carla to frown even harder. Thankfully, I found three-hundred and twenty dollars in my pocket. I used some of it for tissues and cough syrup although I have no idea where the money came from. Of course, I can't take most of that cold medication, because of my allergies.  
  
I'm fuckin' stuck, though. I don't trust anyone else enough to call them, but I don't know _why_ I don't trust them. I thought about calling Debbie. Shit, I lived with her at one time, so isn't she trustworthy? But it set off alarm bells like you wouldn't believe. Because of Michael? Well, okay, let's face it, I never trusted him. No reason to start now. But the weird thing is that Michael's name keeps popping up no matter which of our friends I think about contacting. Em, Ted, Mel, Linds. It doesn't matter. They all know Michael and somehow that makes them a threat. Yeah, right. I'm seriously nuts.  
  
"Eat the soup while it's hot," Carla says. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the shelter on Randolph? Or the Free Clinic?"  
  
Normally, I hate fussing women, but I'm so befuddled with all of this I find her a real comfort. "No, but thanks. I think you're right. I ought to go over to Tremont and just knock on Brian's door." Of course, the illogic isn't lost on me. Parts of my brain seem to be on the blink, but I can still _think_. Hello! Brian is associated with Michael. But in some way, Brian is different. Maybe because I know he can handle whatever the problem turns out to be? Not sure. "You said it was the #14 bus?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I take another sip of Coke then set it aside and rustle in the bag for the soup. "Okay, I'm gonna eat and then go over there."  
  
"You're really starting to sound congested, baby." Carla gives her head a firm shake. "You shouldn't be out on the street." She stops as the PA system blares out another departure and I cringe. Shit, no wonder I have a constant headache. Could it be any louder? "You need a nice warm bed and plenty of hot tea." With a smile, Carla's warm hand pats mine, and then she leaves to go back to work.  
  
As she crosses the terminal and disappears behind the door that leads to the ticket counter, her words echo in my head. A nice warm bed. Longingly, I think about Brian's bed at the loft. Where the fuck is he? And how come he's not even looking for me? I thought we lived together and that he was helping to … well, not to _raise_ me. He's not my father. But we cared for each other. I'd be looking for him if he were lost. Shit, I'd be out on the streets, walking everywhere, searching, putting up flyers, all that stuff you do when someone's missing.  
  
Of course, I'm not really lost. I know where I am, I just can't work out how to get back to where I should be. It's like my brain normally runs about 60 mph, but right now it's down to 10 . I have to process everything slowly, but it hurts when I do. Yeah, the bump on my head, it did something.  
  
That's why I bought the notepad and paper at a drugstore not too far from here. I used it to write down everything I knew so I could analyze things. It's hard to hold all the information in my head at one time. Anyway, after I wrote it all out, after I read it over, and thought about it, I came to a few conclusions. Just stuff I've extrapolated.  
  
This whole thing began with me running down that alley on West Liberty. That's the moment when, in a weird way, I was re-born. I'm not trying to be New Agey, that's just the way it feels. And _Michael_ keeps coming into the story no matter which way I take it. Well, Michael has that comic book store on West Liberty, the one he just bought? So, maybe that's where I was. And maybe someone made me bang my head against something. The bump means I fell or got shoved into something or someone hit me. And that's what caused the problems I'm having now—I'm pretty sure about that. So, somehow, Michael is connected, but it looks like the connection is not in a good way, not in a way where I can call him and ask him what happened. If it were that simple, if I just fell and hit my head, wouldn't he have come after me? And if I got away from him somehow because I was disoriented, wouldn't he have the cops out looking for me? Wouldn't _he_ look for me, wouldn't he send out the troops? I mean, shit, even Michael doesn't hate me that much. But the cops don't give me more than a glance, and I'm convinced that there's danger out there, something bad that'll get me if I let it.  
  
Yeah, I know. Maybe the bump made me crazy. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing. Okay, I'm even willing to believe that, but if I'm nothing more than a kid who's lost his mind, why in hell isn't anyone looking for me? How come I can hide in a bus terminal a few miles from where I live and not a soul seems to care?  
  
It's fuckin' depressing. Eating Carla's soup, which I can't taste, I try not to think about just how depressing it is. I _have_ to find someone to help me, someone I can trust, someone who won't haul me off to the police, and make such a huge fuss that everyone know where I am and what I'm doing, including whoever's responsible for my being this way. I know I'm right about the danger. I just need someone to help me prove it.  
  
When I'm finished with my meal, I discard the trash then button my coat and wrap the scarf tight. It's snowing outside and I feel lousy enough already without making it worse.   
  
I go through the terminal doors and stand there, watching the snow fall, the chill wind cutting through me as I stare at nothing, barely blinking, my thoughts focused on only one thing: I'm going to find Brian and it's gonna be today. I need him. More than ever.  
  
He has to be there  
  
He just _has_ to be.


	3. Three

**Three: Friday, December 19 – Later**

Darkness is falling by the time I get to Brian's building. Hurriedly punching in the code at the front door, I yank it open and go in, pausing to look behind although I don't see anyone suspicious. No two-hundred-pound guy in a black three-piece suit with a white tie, and a toothpick in his mouth is waiting to take me out. Shaking my head at my imagination, I use the stairs, going quickly to the fourth floor. I'm breathing a little hard when I get there and the thought hits me once again that I might have bronchitis. I've had it before and now I have all the same nasty symptoms including that weird, rattling sound in my chest when I breathe. Carla's right—I need a warm bed. Not only do I need one, I desperately want it. Sleeping on metal benches in bus terminals is very overrated.  
  
Banging on the loft door, I yell Brian's name, not caring who hears, wondering once again what happened to my key. I have keys, but they're strange ones I don't recognize. It's shortly after five. Would Brian be home at this hour? Maybe. Sometimes he had late afternoon appointments and would come straight home afterwards. When he did, he'd always bring food with him and we'd sit around and talk about our day. That's one thing I always loved about Brian. He's really smart and there's nothing he can't discuss intelligently. People always figured I liked being with him because he's so good looking and amazing in bed, and it's true, I did like him for those reasons. But he's also a fun person to be with and I used to look forward to our dinners and the stuff we'd discuss. I guess I felt more like an adult with Brian because that's how he treated me.  
  
Now, though … nothing. No one comes to the door and the only sounds I hear as I stand there so fucking disappointed is the traffic out on Tremont and the elevator's quiet hum.  
  
_Elevator_?  
  
I whirl around as it comes into view and for a fraction of a second I see a tall figure in black and think maybe I've lucked out and it's Brian. But, no, it's not Brian. It's a man in a dark suit, a man wearing a black overcoat, a man staring at me with an expression that looks friendly, even kind. He reaches for the wooden slat door, rolling it up, and I catch a glimpse of a pleasant face, cleft in the chin, full lips, bushy eyebrows, "Hi," he's saying in a calm voice. "I'll bet you're Justin."  
  
Right then, I see something I didn't notice at first glance. There's no warmth in those eyes, none whatsoever. They're shark's eyes, cold and blank. Shark's eyes and they're trained on me.  
  
Before I can react, he jumps out of the elevator and clamps a hand on my upper arm. "Easy," he says in that same tranquil tone, although now I hear the steel underneath. His fingers bite into me and I realize how strong and determined this motherfucker is.  
  
"Let go."  
  
"Just take it easy. No one's going to get hurt."  
  
I hate to do it, but I give him my most pitiful face, the one designed to move the hardest heart. My eyes get big as I push out my lower lip just slightly. "You're hurting me," I whisper like I'm already scared to death of the big, bad man. Which I am, but you use what you have.  
  
His grip relaxes. "Okay, listen, Justin, I just need—"  
  
Without a second thought, I shove my knee into his crotch as hard as I can.  
  
He screams, and lets go, flailing backwards.  
  
As he does, I duck to the right, running down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I hear him yelling, but I hope he's in no condition to follow. Hitting the front door with full force, I look over my shoulder just to make sure he's not behind me. As I do, I run headlong into another man standing on the sidewalk—dark suit, overcoat, dead eyes—the pain of our impact exploding in my head, snapping back my neck, reverberating throughout my body. Shit! Surprised, the man reaches for me, his fingers just grazing my arm before he back-peddles then goes down flat on the icy pavement. I leap over him, make a sharp right, my own feet nearly skidding out from under me, and run into the alley. This is familiar territory to me so I take advantage of that, running down a couple of adjoining alleys before I hop over a fence, cut across a small playground, go over another fence, and come out on a neighboring street. Frantically, I look for transportation, something to take me away from those guys, and I get lucky because I see a taxi heading my way. I run into the street, and stand right in it's path until it comes to a halt. The driver looks pissed, but I'm trying to save my life here, so get over it buddy. I ask him to take me to the airport, another place with lots of people where I can get lost—at least, I hope I can.   
  
Sinking down in the backseat, breathing too hard, my head swims with images of Mafia guys tying me up and dumping me into the Allegheny. As my heart thunders in my ears, I keep looking over my shoulder, trying to see if I'm being followed. Fuck. They almost had me. I wasn't wrong. Someone _is_ after me.  
  
I fucking wasn't wrong at all.


	4. Four

**Four: Saturday, December 20**

My cell phone rings Saturday morning just as I shut my suitcase, prepared to get the hell out of Dodge—in this case, fucking Philadelphia, the "city of brotherly love." Shit, it makes no difference what kind of love they're offering—fag love, straight love, fuckin' freaky money love—I didn't want to spend four days away from home trying to land an account that's nothing but a losing proposition all the way around. Especially when it involves sacrificing hours of my Friday night at a "cozy" family dinner with Clinton Bracewell, twenty of his closest friends, their butt-ugly wives … and not a queer anywhere to break up the breeder tedium. Gardner is seeing dollar signs with Bracewell's company, Acle, Inc., a local bakery gone regional that's planning on marketing a line of filled bagels. Yes, bagels with cream cheese and lox and ham and cheddar and all sorts of stuff-meant-to-nauseate inside them. After talking with Clinton, with his people on the production side, with his (alleged) creative team, all I can say is there's nothing there but lots and lots of bullshit. It's been a huge waste of my time. I mean, how long does it take to spread cream cheese on a bagel? Fuck.   
  
Checking the display, I see that it's Christian Speers, CEO of Tectrus Tech—the man who's going to make us all rich. Finally, something good. I hit the talk button. "Kinney."  
  
"Brian, how's it going?"  
  
For a certifiable nerd, Christian has the sexiest voice, one that always reminds me of Justin. My teeth click as I clamp my lips together. Shit, there I go again. Why the fuck can't I let that go? "I'm in Philly, trying my hardest to leave. What's up?"  
  
Christian and I were at Carnegie Mellon together so even though he's a client, we have a straightforward, no bullshit relationship. "It's about the prototype."  
  
"The one locked in my safe at home?"  
  
"You're sure of that?"  
  
"You sound anxious. Why?"  
  
"We got word that, somehow, Brogla got their hands on one."  
  
Picking up a Granny Smith I bought yesterday at a produce stand, I flip it in the air. "Corporate spies at work again?"  
  
He chuckles. "Yeah, well, there's our spies and their spies—two very different breeds."  
  
Not news to me. The world of advertising is cutthroat enough. When you factor in the millions and millions of dollars to be made every time a truly innovative product hits the marketplace, the stakes are astronomical and some people in the corporate world play the game particularly rough. "Look, if one of your toys is missing, they didn't get it from me. Who even knows you gave me one of the prototypes?"  
  
"That's not the point." Christian sounds worried, which is unusual since he's normally such a cool customer. "If Brogla gets their hands on one, they'll reverse engineer the damn thing and there's a good chance they'll figure out our voice recognition software. We've kept it close for so long, it'd be a fuckin' disaster if the technology falls into their hands now, just months before we're ready to launch. They've got their own version of the Mystik, of course, but the voice recognition stuff has impeded its development and I know they're tearing out their hair looking for answers." He must be outside because I hear motor noises in the background. "Can you double check when you get home? I know you told me your place is alarmed and the safe is one of the best, but—"  
  
I flip the apple again then rub my thumb over its smooth surface. "You have about twenty prototypes, don't you? Why're you focusing on the one you gave me?"  
  
"Most of the others have been accounted for. By the way, that, uh, friend of yours, the one who helped us with the initial drawings?"  
  
Despite myself, I swallow. "Justin? Yeah, what about him?"  
  
"He wouldn't be looking to make a quick buck by—"  
  
"Shit, no. He'd never do something like that. He understood the nature of the work he did for you—how hush-hush it was." I'm getting madder the longer I talk. "He signed your fuckin' confidentiality forms. By now, he's probably forgotten all about it."  
  
"The thing is, their people are out in force looking for a weak link who'd hand over a prototype, willingly or unwillingly. These people play hardball, Brian. Even if he wasn't motivated financially, well, didn't you and he … break up? Might he want to—?"  
  
"Christian, I said, no. He's not like that." It's wisdom that keeps me from telling him that Justin _does_ know where the safe is and he knows the combination too. Fuck, why would I have it changed? Justin isn't a thief. He knew all about the Mystik campaign because I was working on it when we lived together, and he knew to keep his mouth shut. Then I realize I'm getting needlessly angry. Christian doesn't know shit about Justin, so he's assuming the worst. I know better. "Listen, I'll give you a call as soon as I get home. I'm sure everything's fine."  
  
"Okay, great. Sorry to be such a worry-wart, but—"  
  
"I know. There's hundreds of millions of dollars at stake." We say our good-byes. I close the phone, and take a big bite of apple, enjoying its tartness. Juice oozes from the corner of my mouth, but, as I wipe it away, I deliberately tell myself not to dwell on the conversation.   
  
_Shit, just leave it alone. It's nothing._  
  
By the time I check out of the Hyatt Regency, get a cab, and make it to the airport, I've called Mikey to confirm that he's been picking up my mail at the loft every day and things are fine. Christian's call spooked me just a little although, really, Mikey's the only person with a key anymore, so why the hell am I worried? Damn, Justin might've done a few sneaky and underhanded things, but that doesn't mean he'd steal the multi-million dollar prototype of a top secret information retrieval device that's going to stand the business world on its fucking head. Mikey assured me he'd done what I asked, going into the loft, turning on lights, making it look occupied, although he sounded a little distracted. When I asked him why, he said that Ben had been robbed the other night, at gunpoint. He was still rattled. Shit, maybe our dear police-chief-who-wants-to-be-mayor is right, maybe the crime rate _is_ up.  
  
Waiting in the VIP lounge, drinking a latte, I'm still feeling a little unsettled by Christian's call, though I'm not sure why. Maybe because he mentioned Justin? No one knows it, but, fuck, I've missed the kid. I mean, he did what he had to do, and I support that even if he did stab me in the back. Maybe, though, I helped push him along that path? I know I didn't make it easy for him and, yeah, I made a couple of stupid, fucking mistakes. When you get right down to it, I have no one to blame but myself for the fact that he left me for some beady-eyed, bristle-chinned fiddler whose shit-eating grin always makes me want to puke . Still, I don't think I realized how much I'd grown used to having Justin around, waking up to him every morning, listening to him go on and on about some fuckin' art project, watching as he ate more pizza than should be possible for one person, all the things that used to be a part of my life.   
  
Grabbing my cell phone, I push the thoughts out of my head as I dial my office voicemail, which I've neglected. It's piled up since Cynthia's on Christmas vacation. Shit, the whole world seems to be shutting down. I click through the messages and move on to the answering machine at the loft. I don't usually check the messages at home because, fuck, everyone's got my cell phone number, don't they? But … just to be sure.   
  
It's the fourth message in:  
  
_"Brian?"_  
  
Justin sounds different, though I'm not sure how. His voice is rough; it's obvious he's getting a cold, but, no, it's more than that.  
  
_"I don't know where I am. Someplace on West Liberty. Near … no, not near … I don't know. Near Liberty and Maddock, I think, close to that Mexican place? Something's wrong. Are you there? Please pick up."_  
  
It hits me with a jolt. _Younger_. He sounds younger. The confident nineteen-year-old has been replaced by—what the fuck?—the frightened teenager I cared for after the bashing. Listening carefully, I hear traffic sounds, footsteps, people's voices. He's walking fast as he talks, but why? What the fuck is going on?  
  
_"Brian? I don't know what to do."_  
  
His voice cracks. He breathes hard into the phone and I know that sound, it's the one he makes when he's trying to be brave, but getting overwhelmed.   
  
Then the phone goes dead.  
  
What the hell? I continue through the messages and after one from Mikey telling me everything's fine, and one from Lindsay, who forgot I was out of town, it's Justin again—just as scared, just as young, just as desperate.  
  
And after that—fuck, fuck, fuck—three more messages from him.  
  
With thumb and forefinger, I pinch the bridge of my nose until it hurts. Shit! I dial Jennifer Taylor's number and get voicemail. Clicking off, I grit my teeth. Where the fuck does she work? I concentrate and it comes to me. Whitney Realtors. The information directory gives me the number and I do a little bullshit wheedling, eventually getting a cell phone number from the receptionist when I use my poor-confused-male-who-needs-help voice. Works every time.   
  
"Hello?" she says on the third ring. "Molly, honey, stay here. Uh, hello?"  
  
"Jennifer?"  
  
A long silence follows. "Brian. You're not one of the people I expected—"  
  
"Are you out of town?"  
  
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes. Why—"  
  
"Have you checked your voicemail?"  
  
"At home? No, I usually do that when—"  
  
"Do it now. Call me back." I give her the number and hang up.  
  
Ten minutes later, the phone rings. "Brian?" She sounds frantic. "What the hell is going on? I have six messages from Justin and he sounds—"  
  
"Younger? Confused? Frightened?"  
  
"My God, yes! And Debbie called, too, saying he was supposed to stay with her but never showed up."  
  
"But he didn't call your cell phone?"  
  
"He may have. I've had it shut off for the last few days, trying to relax. Besides, he knew I was at Patty's place—my sister's—and should've called there if he needed something. Did he call you?"  
  
"Yeah. Where are you?"   
  
"At the airport on the way back from Scranton."  
  
"Are you coming into PIT?"  
  
"Of course. Around 1:00."  
  
"I should already be there. Give me a call when you land and we'll connect. But right now, call Ian. See what he knows. I'll call Debbie."  
  
"Something's happened to him, Brian. He sounded so scared and alone." Her voice trembles as she tries to go on. "Like he's lost his mind."  
  
My eyes close against the mental image I'm getting of Justin. "I know, Jen. I know."


	5. Five

**Five: Saturday, December 20 – later**

_Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit!_  
  
It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since I ran from Shark Eyes and his friend, Jaws, back at Brian's place, but, fuck it all, I thought I'd lost them. Yet, who did I see just ten minutes ago, walking toward me? Right. My two friends who must've somehow managed to follow me here to Pittsburgh International even though I thought I'd shaken them.  
  
Shit, I've worked so hard at this fugitive stuff, but still, I've failed. Yesterday, when I got to the airport, I even bought an airline ticket just so I could go through security and get to the Air side of PIT where most of the stores and restaurants are. It was for one of those discount commuter flights to New York—I felt kinda nostalgic—and I also bought a cheap backpack so I'd look like a college student on his way home. Although, "home" seems to be the one thing I no longer have.  
  
Okay, pity is not working in this situation. Taking a deep breath, I walk faster. I only saw them from a distance, although I knew who it was right away, but I'm not sure they saw me. Fuck, I don't know how much more of this I can take. Despite my coat, I've been shaking all day; I'm sure I have a fever. My breathing sounds worse, and I know I need antibiotics. Plus, I'm worried that the PTSD attacks are gonna come back. The crowds are a lot bigger here at PIT and there have been a couple of instances, with swarms of people around me, when I could feel myself getting freaky, although, fortunately, it stopped. Fuck, it seems clear to me I'm in deep shit trouble. I still don't know who to trust. I still can't reach Brian or my mom. And when I tried a few hours ago to call them again, Brian's cell phone stopped working right in the middle of the call. So, great. No phone, dwindling money, fucked up head, sick, PTSD, and two Mafia guys looking for me. This is not fun.  
  
Shit! When I look over my shoulder, I see them, a distance away, but they _are_ following me. Ducking around a corner, I see a service door that says _Employees Only_. Usually, you can only go through a door like that if you'd got a card to slide through the slot, but this one's propped open by a yellow bucket on wheels—the kind janitors use. I tiptoe up to the door and peer through, seeing a guy in a gray uniform, to the left, down a long hall. He's working a mop. As quietly as possible, I step over the bucket and go right, down the hall. Shit, if I get caught, they'll think I'm a terrorist, but who knows? At this point, that might be a step up. I find the men's room, go inside, and lock the door behind me. If they saw me come in here, I'm fucked because I'm assuming there's no other way out. I'm hoping they didn't. God, I'm tired of this shit.  
  
I stop.  
  
There's a kid in the bathroom, sitting on the sink, his legs dangling as he looks back at me. "Hey," he says, and takes a puff on the cigarette he's smoking.  
  
"Hey."   
  
He's maybe fifteen, lots of curly black hair, big eyes, kinda cute, wearing a bright blue sweater and jeans. "What's up?" he says, following my look as I check over my shoulder for any sign of my "friends." He tilts his head in question. "You on the run?"  
  
What the fuck? Looking around, I realize this place matches my mood: Cracked tile, a dirty mop, and a couple of beat-up yellow caution signs. Caution, right. Just what I need. If I were any more cautious, I'd stuff myself in a box, pull the lid tight, and refuse to come out until spring. "Yeah, I am."  
  
"Really?" He pulls a cigarette pack from his jacket and offers me one, but I shake my head. "I'm Thaddeus."  
  
"Justin." I shift the backpack, wondering how the strap could be biting into my shoulder. How'd it get so heavy? Must be all the cold medicine. "How come you're here?"  
  
He shrugs. "Working."  
  
"Doing what? Flying a plane? You're too fucking young."  
  
He stares at me, his face blank. "I'm a hustler." Thaddeus shrugs. "I don't fly the plane, I do the pilot."  
  
The world is for shit. Why do I keep learning this lesson? Plucking the cigarette from the boy's hand, I take a drag. "Fuck."  
  
"Yeah, that too."  
  
"So, that's why you're back here in this restricted area?"  
  
"Making a hundred bucks." Thaddeus takes back the cigarette. "You sound sick. Why're you smoking?"  
  
"I'm fucked, so what does it matter?" Then I hear heavy footsteps. "Shit!" I whisper, and back away from the door as someone rattles the doorknob.  
  
Thaddeus perks up. "You need to escape?"  
  
"Of course I need to escape! Do you think I came back here to freshen my fuckin' makeup?"  
  
With a thunk, the kid jumps off his perch and motions for me to follow. I'm shocked when he goes through a door I didn't see at the end of the men's room and into an adjoining locker room. Then he takes me through a labyrinth of rooms and hallways and we emerge back out in the terminal area, near the peoplemover. Without any hassle, we make it outside. Then we manage to snag a ride on one of the buses headed to a nearby hotel—Thaddeus knows the driver, who obligingly lets us off near Collins Avenue about twenty minutes later. Soon, we're walking down an alley, the only sign of PIT the planes roaring overhead as they approach the airport north of where we are.  
  
I'm breathing hard through all of this, and, fuck, being eighteen feels more like eighty. "Hey, Thaddeus," I say, huffing and puffing as I come to a halt. "Where are we going?"  
  
"My place."  
  
"You have a place?"  
  
"Well, I share it with some other guys, but yeah." He points to a building that's still a distance away. "See there? It's Baldwin Court." He scrunches up his face. "Shit, man, you sound awful. How about you crash there? Those guys will never find you."  
  
Right away I think of Brian's words to me, ones he'd drilled into my head. _Never go home with a stranger_. Okay, I'm sure Brian meant an adult male because going home with an eighty-year-old granny or a cute fifteen-year-old really doesn't seem to pose much threat. "So you guys … rent the place together?"  
  
"No, a guy named Mitch does."  
  
"He's your pimp?"  
  
"Sorta. He takes care of us and, yeah, gets a cut of everything." Thaddeus gives another of those I-don't-give-a-shit shrugs. "It works for us."  
  
"I'll bet." Okay, so there _is_ an adult male and maybe he's dangerous, but, what the fuck else am I going to do? I'm seriously sick and seriously being pursued by some nasty guys. If this Mitch turns out to be six-foot-six with ripped abs and pecs, well, I'll just back out of the place as soon as I see him. I take a deep breath. "Okay. Thanks for-for helping."  
  
When we walk into Thaddeus's apartment, I'm struck by a couple of things. For a place where kids live, it looks very neat and tidy. The furniture isn't new, but it's not crappy either and looks coordinated since most of it is in leaf-patterned shades of blue and green. There's jade-colored lamps, a good-sized TV, a bookcase with books in it, and even pictures on the walls, which look like Matisse reprints. The other thing, which is surprising, is Mitch. He's tall, skinny, with a shock of brown hair that goes in every direction, and wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like an accountant or a missionary, dorky and self-conscious. There isn't a furry hat or heavy gold chains anywhere on him.   
  
"Thad? You've brought a friend?" Mitch is in the small galley kitchen, stirring something on the stove—a big pot of something. Classical music pours forth from a radio on the counter as the man gives one final stir. He wipes his hands on a towel and comes to greet us and, despite being sick and fucked up, I get the immediate vibe—he's gay. "Hi, there. I'm Mitch Reynolds." He offers a hand, a friendly smile on his very vanilla, nondescript face, but nowadays I'm leery of friendly smiles.  
  
Shrugging the backpack off my shoulder, I set it on the floor, but grip the strap in case I want to make a quick retreat. "Hi. I'm Justin."  
  
His brow wrinkles in concern. "And you're sick. Poor thing. Thad, you've done your good deed for the day." He rubs his chin as he studies me. "How about if you sleep in Thad's room. You can sleep with Tim and Edward for a few nights, can't you, Thad? This poor boy needs a lot of rest and some good, hot soup." His face brightens. "Which I've just made. Okay, let's get you—" He puts his hands on my shoulders to steer me further into the apartment.  
  
"Wait." Everything he's saying sounds wonderful, but I'm trying to be skeptical and realistic, so I steel my voice. "Why are you so willing to help me out? If you think you can recruit me for your little business, I'm not interested."  
  
"Oh, you're smart." He waves a finger in my face. "You caught me. Listen, I'm a businessman, all right? And, yes, you look like a perfect candidate for my—as you call it—little business. But I'm not some sleaze merchant forcing young boys into prostitution. That's so twentieth century, don't you think? All I ask is that, when you're feeling better, you listen to my spiel. Kind of like those time-share things people do. Okay? The room and board will be paid if you do that."  
  
It sounds reasonable, but what the fuck do I know? There's a saying my Grandma Mary used to use: Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Is that what I'm doing here? Shit, I don't know, I really don't. I'm fuckin' sick, my chest hurts, my throat hurts, my head aches so much I can barely think. And he's smiling at me, this dad smile, offering me a bed and some of his soup if I'll consider joining his delightful enterprise. Is he fooling me? Maybe. But there's a bed somewhere I can lay on, close my eyes, and sleep, actually sleep the way you do when you're not upright, not surrounded by a billion people. I'm not sure I have the strength to do anything else right now. Maybe it's wrong, but I have to take a chance. "Okay, I'll listen to your spiel, but I'm not giving out any freebies. I just need a few hours sleep, that's all."  
  
"Of course you do." He gives my cheek a light tap, and looks sympathetic. "I'll get you a bowl of soup and some bread. You should eat. Then you can sleep." He smiles over at Thaddeus who's watched this exchange with concern though I'm not sure why. "Why don't you get Justin settled? I'll bring in the soup."  
  
Thaddeus nods, and looks more relaxed. He motions to me. "Come on. It's a small room, but the mattress is comfortable."  
  
Thoughts of laying my head down on a real pillow assault me as pick up my backpack and follow the kid deeper into the apartment.   
  
This'll be fine, won't it?   
  
I'm pretty sure it will.


	6. Six

**Six: Saturday, December 20 - later**

Late that afternoon, after we meet at PIT, after we drop Molly off at one of Jennifer's friends, after we exchange all the information we have, Jennifer and I drive to Michael's comic book store, the worry between us overwhelming any awkwardness we might feel at being together. "Let me do the talking," I say to her as we climb out of the car and head into Red Cape.  
  
She nods, her lips compressed, her blue eyes—eyes that remind me so much of Justin—very unyielding. Wearing a navy blue pants suit, white blouse, black overcoat and boots, she looks like a typical, upscale working mom as she marches beside me with a steely determination that makes me afraid for Michael. Well, afraid if I wasn't so pissed at him.  
  
Inside the store, which smells like Debbie's turkey meatloaf, very heavy on the oregano, Michael has one customer who's just about to get his purchases rung up. I clasp the kid's shoulder. "My treat," I say with a grim smile. I grab the comics and shove them at him. "Out."  
  
He looks befuddled, but realizes he's getting at least ten comics for free so he doesn't question me, leaving quickly. I turn the sign, and lock the door behind him.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Brian?" Mikey demands, scowling at me, his gaze flickering to Jennifer, but not staying there long.  
  
I throw money onto the counter. "What the fuck's going on, Mikey?"  
  
"Whadda you mean?"  
  
"You told me you hadn't seen Justin."  
  
Again, Michael looks at Jennifer then back at me. "Why all the sudden interest in Justin? I thought he was out of our lives."  
  
I lean across the counter to look him in the eye, my fingers gripping the smooth edge so tightly it's a wonder I don't leave indents. "He was on his way here last Wednesday. He called Debbie from the coffee shop on the PIFA campus and asked if he could stay with her a few days because he didn't have anywhere else to go. He told her he'd be at your store in a half hour, that he was going to get some money you owed him so he could put a deposit down on a place to live. And you _knew_ he never showed up at Deb's because she told you that the next day." I lean a little closer. "But you never told her you knew anything about him, and you lied to me about seeing him." I raise an eyebrow. "Not to mention that Deb says you've been noticeably absent the last few days."  
  
Dark eyebrows slanted, Michael stares at me for a minute before his gaze drops. "All right."  
  
"You _did_ see him?" Jennifer asks in a sharp voice.  
  
"Yeah." Michael glances up at me, doing that puppy dog thing with his eyes that's supposed to melt my stone-cold heart. "We kind of had an argument and I … well, I didn't want to upset you."  
  
Fuck, he can be so infuriating. "And how would you having an argument with Justin upset me?"  
  
Michael's eyes roll up as his face contorts. "You're the one who wanted us working together, but, I don't know, maybe he was in a mood or something. He'd just broken up with Ethan—"  
  
My tongue goes in my cheek. "And I'm sure you didn't give him any shit about that."  
  
"Okay, maybe I said a few things. Come on, Brian, Justin and I have always been kinda so-so with each other."  
  
"What was the argument about? Ian?"  
  
"Hell no, I don't give a fuck who he's sleeping with—"  
  
"As long as it's not me?"  
  
Michael looks surprised. "That's not true. Why would you say—"  
  
"Why were you fighting?"  
  
Michael throws out a scowl. "Like you said, I owed him some money and I didn't … well, I didn't have it all. That pissed him off."  
  
"Shit, Mikey." I raise both eyebrows. "So, you were cheating the kid?"  
  
Michael looks indignant. "I'm not cheating him! I just had expenses and I used some of the money to—"  
  
"You don't use a partner's profits to cover expenses. You fucking know that."  
  
"Well, shit, Brian, he was acting so weird."  
  
I stand up straight, glancing at Jennifer who takes a step closer, her hands balled into fists. "Weird how?"   
  
Michael shrugs, his eyes everywhere but on me. "Wanting to know if you were out of town. He asked that several times. I mean, what business is it of his?"  
  
"Did you tell him?"  
  
"Tell him what?"  
  
"That I was out of town."  
  
"Well, yeah, I guess I did, but why the fuck shouldn't I?" The phone begins to ring, a shrill tone that's only adding to the headache I have, but Mikey ignores it. "He's not a stranger or anything."  
  
Knowing Mikey like I do, I can see how rigidly he's holding himself, and recognize how much he disapproves of this whole line of questioning. Somehow this is personal for him, and I wonder if it's because it's about Justin. Shit, I'm not an idiot. I know he and Justin have always had a problem getting along, although it always seemed to me that Mikey was the one doing most of the pushing. Okay, wrong. Justin pushed too, but he always pushed me toward Michael. He seemed to understand and even accept Mikey's place in my life. Michael, however, never returned the favor. "Fuck!" I grab the phone off its base and slam it back down. "Did you know Justin's disappeared?" I ask him now, watching his face.  
  
He looks surprised, but not shocked. "I just figured when he didn't show up at Ma's he got a better offer. Or went back to the fiddler."  
  
"He not with Ethan and we can't find him anywhere," Jennifer says with some heat, the pink color coming into her cheeks. "The last place anyone saw him was _here_. He's left messages for us, but he sounds confused and frightened—not like himself at all."  
  
Michael rubs at his face, a frown materializing. "Wow, I had no idea. I'm sorry. He was fine when he left here."  
  
"Which was?" I ask him with steel in my voice, wishing like hell he'd just spit it all out.  
  
"Like you said, Wednesday afternoon, around 3:00. And by the way, I did give him some money, just not all of it. So, he had money. Oh, and a cell phone."  
  
Oh, shit. "A cell phone?"  
  
"Yeah. A silver one."  
  
Shit, shit, shit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I manage a deep breath. "Okay, so you and he had words, you gave him some money, and he left, right? And he was fine when he left?"  
  
"Of course." Michael's face darkens up with fresh anger. "What do you think? That I beat him up or something? Like I even could!"  
  
I bite my lower lip, trying not to say it. "Yeah, he'd kick your ass."  
  
Jennifer gives a harsh laugh. "You've got that right!"   
  
After that, everything went downhill and I found myself refereeing between the two of them—not a position I particularly enjoyed. What with Justin missing, Jennifer was in no mood to be her usual, restrained WASP self, and the two of them were trading barbs at a furious rate. Eventually, I managed to haul her out of there before one killed the other.  
  
By the time I dropped Jennifer off at her friend's house so she could pick up Molly, a few things have been decided. When I talked to Debbie a second time, right after we left Michael's shop, she'd spoken to Carl. He advised Jennifer to file a missing persons report so Jennifer planned on heading down to the police station, Molly in tow. She and I agreed to touch base every day and we'd both be forwarding our phones whenever we went out, praying that Justin would call again. Jennifer would work her way through a list of Justin's friends, hoping by some chance he was staying with one of them and just pulling a prank, although neither one of us believed that one. She'd also be talking to the folks at PIFA when their offices opened, just to make sure Justin wasn't crashing with someone in a dorm room.   
  
As for me, well, I'll be combing the streets as soon as it's light, but I didn't tell her that. Shit, already I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing in the middle of this whole thing. Justin and I broke up. Were we even in a relationship to begin with? I never acknowledged one. Which, of course, had been part of the problem. Fuck, I'd made a huge mistake. No one knew that. I kept it to myself. But late at night when it was just me, lying in bed, smoking, thinking about how Justin used to be there, sleeping by my side, well … I knew the truth. I missed the little fucker then and I miss him now. Even worse, I'm fucking worried about him. Everything that's happened, it just doesn't add up, and the fact that he's nowhere to be found, well, that scares the shit out of me.   
  
As soon as I come through the door, I go to the safe, which is concealed in the brick wall in the living room. Opening it as quickly as possible, I look inside.   
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
  
The prototype is gone.


	7. Seven

**Seven: Tuesday, December 23**

"Hey, you awake?"  
  
Rolling my head on the pillow, I make an attempt to open my eyes but nothing seems to be working. Shit. Where am I? Actually, _who_ am I?  
  
"Justin, wake up, please."  
  
Okay, Justin Taylor. Right. Faux-runaway kid with a massive cold and a brain that stopped working the way it used to nearly a week ago. God, my life sucks. Forcing my eyes open, I find myself looking up at Thaddeus. "Hi. What's up?" Struggling to sit, I glance around the tiny, windowless bedroom where I've been sleeping the last two days. It looks just like you'd expect: clothes everywhere, CDs, jewel cases, magazines and newspapers, empty fast food containers, a huge box of condoms. Not at all neat and clean like the living room. I feel bad that I've taken the kid's bed, but, shit, I couldn't help it. All I remember is eating some of the soup Mitch sent in right after I got here on Saturday then crashing on the mattress and sleeping for at least fifteen hours. One of Thaddeus's roommates brought more soup the next day. Then I slept again, ate again, and here I am staring at him, groggy, still not feeling great at all. "I'm sorry I took your bed," I manage to say despite the nasty, cottony sensation in my throat.  
  
On his knees next to the mattress on the floor, Thaddeus looks over his shoulder though the door's shut. "Justin, listen to me," he says in a voice with a hiss in it. "I made an awful mistake. You've got to get out of here."  
  
"Why? Is Mitch upset that I'm staying too long?" I sit up straighter, rubbing my face, worried by the nervous tone in his voice. Before I can say anything else, though, I'm seized by a fit of coughing so intense I fear I might lose a lung.  
  
"Shit, you sound terrible. Here." Thaddeus picks up the steaming cup next to him on the floor. "It's tea."  
  
"Thanks." I take a tentative sip, can't taste it, but the warmth liquid clears the nasty residue and soothes my throat. Over the cup's rim, I see the worry lines in Thaddeus's forehead. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Do you know what day it is?"  
  
"Monday."  
  
He shakes his head. "No. It's Tuesday."  
  
"How could it be Tuesday? I got here on Saturday night and it's been two days since that."  
  
Thaddeus leans close 'til he's inches from my face. "He drugged the soup."  
  
I hear the words, but they make no sense. Drugs? Soup? "Who did what? I don't understand. You mean, him, like … Mitch?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But he looks like a dweeb." As soon as I say it, I know how stupid it sounds. Since when did someone have to look evil to be evil? My brain is more fucked up than I'm willing to admit. "He's drugging me?" What about my allergies? Shit, he could've killed me! "You're sure?"  
  
Thaddeus looks at the closed door then nods. "Fuck, it's all my fault. He gives us extra privileges if we bring in a new boy, so I—that's why I invited you to stay. Not the only reason." He looks pained, like his awful secret has been exposed … and I guess it has. "I should've known he'd do something. He gets pissed when a boy is assertive, like you, because _he's_ the big authority and we're all supposed to obey him, or else. He wants to keep you here until he can persuade you to work for him."  
  
Well, that explains why my coat, shoes, and backpack are now missing not to mention why Mitch kept coming into the room every time I _was_ awake and asking if we could have our "little chat." And me with the bright idea of telling him to fuck off when he did it once too often. Shit, things are seriously not going well for me, not on any front. And here's the sad part—even after three days rest, I still feel like shit. I'm sure I have full-blown bronchitis and that I need antibiotics. Could I get pneumonia? Maybe that's what I already have—who knows? The thought makes me cough harder so I take another sip of the tea. "Did he tell you he planned on sampling the product?"   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Does he want to fuck me?"  
  
"Yeah. Of course. He fucks all of us."  
  
Right then, I have a very disquieting thought. "If I've been out cold because he put something in the soup then maybe he—"  
  
"No." Thaddeus shakes his head, eyes widening. "He's not like that. He likes us awake and active." He wrinkles his nose and moves his mouth like he's tasting something horrible. "He kinda thinks of himself as this big, important teacher, especially in bed. So, he'd want you awake to appreciate his great 'gift.' But he's making more soup and that's when I heard them talking about the drugs." He shrugs. "He thinks you're hot. He wants to offer you to some of his richer clients. He's got this whole idea about running some kind of high-class escort service."  
  
I think I'm gonna be seriously sick to my stomach. "One I'm supposed to spearhead?"   
  
"Yeah, I think so."  
  
The door crashes open and there's Mitch, smiling as he surveys the scene, the sound of the TV behind him, loud music, a man's deep voice announcing the top story of the night. He's got on his normal unexceptional outfit, a gray sweater and pants, and still looks like a pastor checking on the members of his youth group—in this case, a perv pastor who likes to fuck his kids. "Thad?" His voice is soft, but there's a command there. "Let's not over-exert our guest." He motions with a hand, that cloying smile trained on me. "He needs his rest."  
  
"Okay." Thaddeus nods and gets up, throwing me a backward glance.   
  
As the kid goes past Mitch, he widens the door so Thaddeus can exit then steps inside. "So, how're you doing today?"   
  
I look at him, really at a loss, my hands unconsciously gathering handfuls of the cotton sheet as if I'll otherwise fly away. Fuck, why did I think this would be safe? And how unlucky am I that it's not? But, since he's blocking the door, and I'm not really in a position to run, I manage a weak smile. "Doing better. Thanks again for letting me stay." I'm not gonna ask him about the soup because I'll get Thaddeus in trouble.  
  
Mitch relaxes. "Okay, good. It's not a problem, you staying. So, don't worry about that."   
  
_I'll bet it's not a problem,_ I think, but keep the smile on my face. "Thanks."  
  
He checks his watch. "Uh, I've got some business to take care of, but how about you and I talk later? Like we've been trying to do? I think I'm gonna be able to help you."  
  
What can I say? This guy's so great he just might get the Humanitarian of the Year award. "Sure." My attempt at looking perky and interested probably falls flat, but his expression doesn't alter. "I'll just …" I point to the bathroom door, "just clean up a little."  
  
"Sounds good." He rubs his hands together. "I'll get Tim to bring you some more of that soup. We made another huge pot."  
  
"Okay."   
  
He backs out of the room and slams the door.  
  
Thank God. At least I've got some time to think about my next move. If he wants to talk later then maybe I'm safe for awhile, soup-wise. I mean, it wouldn't be in his "best interest" to knock me out with another round of chicken-vegetable-GHB soup if he wants to talk to me, right?  
  
Then I hear the unmistakable sound of a lock being engaged.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Oh, fuck.


	8. Eight

**Eight: Tuesday, December 23 – later**

Parking the 'Vette as judiciously as I can in this crappy neighborhood, I hurry into the bus terminal and over to the ticket counter, looking for the woman Horvath described. Heavy-set, black, cheerful. I see her right away and stride over to lean into her window.  
  
"Can I help you, sir?" She looks me in the eye, and, because I admire directness, I like her right away.  
  
"Are you Carla?"  
  
She pats her nametag, but isn't snotty about it. "Sure am." Then she takes a long moment to look me up and down. "What can I do for you, gorgeous?"  
  
"Detective Carl Horvath told me you'd spoken with a young man last Thursday or Friday." The public address system blares out a departure and I have to stop. "A long-haired blond with blue eyes?"  
  
She nods, eyebrows slanting into a frown. "You mean Justin? Yes, I did. Poor thing. I hope he's okay. I haven't seen him since Friday."  
  
"He was sick? That's what you told Detective Horvath?"  
  
"Poor baby had one hell of cold." She pats her ample chest. "Sounded like it's settled in here. I was worried about him. Wanted him to go to the Free Clinic."  
  
"Did he seem confused?"  
  
"He did. Told me he was a runaway, but I had my doubts. He seemed to know his way around the area a little too well for someone from Harrisburg." She pushes her lips together and gives me the once over. "You Brian?"  
  
Surprised, I nod.  
  
"Well, where in hell have you been? That poor boy talked about nothing else but _you_." She's leaned so far forward I can smell peppermint on her breath. "Where's Brian, how come he's not answering his phone, why's he leaving me out here, how come he doesn't come get me? Did you go off somewhere and forget to tell him? It seemed to me you're the most important person in his world."  
  
Propping an elbow on the ticket booth's narrow edge, I lay my head in my hand and try not to think, to react, to feel anything, although my head is already pounding with the motherfucker of a headache I've had since this thing started. I need to stay focused so I can fuckin' figure out what's going on. Justin and I are no longer together and even if he's screwed up in the head for some reason that still doesn't mean I have any obligation to him. Yeah, which is why I'm here on the other side of town after taking off the whole fuckin' day from work to talk to Carla—because I have _no_ obligation to him. Who the fuck am I fooling? "If he's … if that's what he was saying … it sounds like he's had some kind of memory loss."  
  
She gives me a level stare that feels like a very effective death ray. "You telling me you and he are no longer friends?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, you are some fool, Brian—some big fool." Her voice is low, but very precise. "That boy is an absolute delight. I sure can't imagine any reason why you'd want to not be his friend."  
  
Taking a moment to look around the busy terminal, I reflect on how nice it looks since they re-did it a few years ago, all golden and bright and packed with busy people on their way home to those they love. "It's complicated," I manage in a voice that doesn't betray me.  
  
"There ain't nothing complicated about love, honey." Carla cocks an eyebrow, and the look on her face says it all: she thinks I'm an idiot who needs to be spoon-fed the basic truths of life. "Love either is or it isn't. You love someone, you take care of them, you're there for them. You walk away from that, well, it's hard to call that anything except hate."  
  
Shit. Now I'm getting lectured by a black chick at a Greyhound Bus terminal? "I don't hate him. Not that it's any of your fuckin' business."  
  
For a minute, she studies me, her face thoughtful. "No, come to think of it, I guess you don't." She gives me the same wide smile we started with. "You're here right now, aren't you? That means you're still taking care of him, and that tells me everything I need to know about how you really feel … even if you're still fooling yourself."  
  
The air leaves my lungs and all I can do is stare at her.   
  
God, when did this fucking feeling first grab me?  
  
And why in hell won't it let me go?


	9. Nine

**Nine: Wednesday, December 24 – almost midnight**

I know it's only been a little over twenty-four hours since Mitch locked the door and made me a prisoner, but I'm starting to panic. We had our little "talk" yesterday, just like he planned it. That's when I made it clear I appreciated his hospitality but wanted to leave. _Now._ That's when _he_ made it clear he had no intention of letting me. Oh, those weren't his precise words. No, of course not. What he said was he wanted me to "take some time to think about it." That he "thought I owed him that much." That he'd already "done so much" for me. Plus, he was _so_ concerned about my health, and told me to eat the delicious, home-made soup he'd fixed for me. I had to refuse, of course, even though I didn't let on that I knew about the drugs. He told me again. I still refused. That's when he left the room and locked the door behind him. Again.  
  
Since he has muscle backing him—Tim, the nineteen-year-old, who's gotta be as tall as Brian and very ripped—I have little chance of getting by them using brute force—not in my present condition, which puts me somewhere at the level of a very strong four-year-old. My only consolation is that Mitch's approach so far has been very hands-off. Instead of violence, he's doing a psychological thing, talking about how I'll get hurt out there in the cold, cruel world, how I need a doctor and he'll get one for me just as soon as I agree to his terms, how he'll make my "schedule" really limited. You know, like I only have to fuck twenty guys a week. Isn't he a sweetheart? I don't know how I can resist his offer. And here's the thing: I'm not foolish enough to believe he'd let me do whatever I wanted just because I agreed to his wacko terms. I'm sure it's not that simple. If he's using drugs on these kids, he's probably not opposed to other forms of "persuasion." I know I did a stupid thing, but that doesn't mean I _am_ stupid. Fuck, I know how this shit works. He's gonna get what he wants, one way or another.  
  
My shit-for-luck is holding, isn't it? Because it's Christmas Eve and I'm locked in a tiny room on the sixth floor of this lousy building because some CPA-turned-pimp wants me to be the centerpiece of his new business venture. How much worse can it get? But, shit, I don't even want that question answered. I'm depressed enough already. Depressed and just fucking fed up with everything. It's been a week since this started and I'm getting very shaky. I mean, I feel like I'm ready to explode. I've tried to deal with this, to figure it out, and somehow find a solution, but everything I try just ends up being wrong. I need help. I fuckin' need someone to help me.  
  
Right then, like my prayer's been heard, the bedroom door's lock is being disengaged. I struggle to get to my feet. The door is thrown open so hard it bounces off the wall with a crash. It's Thaddeus and he's got my coat, shoes, and backpack.  
  
"Here." He hands the items to me, looking over his shoulder. "There's a big Christmas party going on down the hall. Mitch is there with Tim and Edward. I snuck away."  
  
Grabbing the shoes, I take a closer look at him and see he's got a bruise on his cheek. "Shit, did he do that to you?" I ram my feet in the sneakers, and take the coat, jamming my arms into the sleeves. Then I sling the backpack on my shoulder. "He's a fuckin' pig."  
  
Thaddeus doesn't meet my eyes. "I should've never brought you here. It's my own fault."  
  
"He figured out you told me about the soup?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
We walk into the deserted living room and for the first time since Saturday I see the outside world. It's snowing pretty hard and the wind's blowing it 'til it's almost horizontal. While this picturesque Christmas Eve probably makes all the people at Midnight Mass really happy, it doesn't do a thing for me. Shit, I'm going out into _that_? Without even trying I can hear the booming music coming from somewhere close by; if it were any louder, the floor would be vibrating. Wrapping my scarf tight, I take a look around the room and see the phone sitting on top of the kitchen's pass-through. Oh, God. It's been days since I tried to reach Brian. Wouldn't he be home on Christmas Eve? "I'm going to make a call."   
  
Thaddeus trails behind me, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "Okay, but hurry. If he notices I'm gone, he's gonna come right back here."  
  
Dialing Brian's number, my heart hammers in my ears so hard I wonder if I'll be able to hear if he _does_ answer. It rings once and then I hear a funny, stuttering tone before it begins to ring again. I clutch the phone with one hand, the backpack's strap with the other, and hold my breath.  
  
"Hello?" Brian is yelling over deafening music that pulsates in the background.   
  
Frozen, I can't open my mouth. I know I have to say something, but no words are coming. He's at Babylon? On Christmas Eve? My breath hitches as I struggle to speak, my lips trembling. "Brian?"  
  
"Justin!" He shouts my name and I hear immediate excited voices around him, all talking at once. "Shut the fuck up!" Brian growls at them. "Justin? Shit, it's so good to hear your voice. Talk to me, Sunshine. Where are you?"  
  
My eyes close as I struggle to pull air into my lungs. "Brian, I kept calling you." Fuck, I can't even talk. That's not important. "I tried calling and calling …"  
  
"I know. I was out of town." The music has gotten softer and I can hear his quick footsteps. "No, stay here," I hear him saying to someone. "Call Jennifer. Tell her I'll let her know when I've got him." His tone grows more impatient. "Shit, Mikey, that's okay, I'll take care of it!" The creak of a door ushers in a new sound: snow crunching under Brian's feet. "Tell me where you are. Come on, Sonny Boy—let me come get you."  
  
Tears fill my eyes, but with ruthless determination I hold them at bay, knuckling one eye. "It's near the airport. A-a place called Baldwin Court, just off—" A sob catches in my throat and I struggle to stay coherent, scrubbing at my face, trying to breathe. "Near Collins Avenue."  
  
"Listen, Justin, I'm walking to the car right now. I want you to wait for me, okay? Don't go anywhere. If you can—"  
  
The apartment's front door explodes open. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Mitch shouts as he advances on us, his very vanilla features suddenly wreathed in a fury that distorts his face into something entirely different from what I've seen of him so far. The calm, rational bookkeeper has been replaced by a wild man with dilated pupils and glazed eyes, his teeth bared, his gestures feral, unrestrained. His hair and clothing disheveled, I wonder if I'd smell alcohol coming from him if I wasn't so sick. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thaddeus backing away  
  
"Get the fuck away from me!" I scream as he lunges at the phone. The backpack slips from my shoulder and hits the floor. I dodge around it as I try to elude him.  
  
"Justin! What's happening?" Brian is yelling.  
  
As Mitch swings, his palm connecting with my cheek in a blow that knocks me backwards, the phone flies out of my hand. I crash onto the wooden floor and skid for a few feet before coming to a halt. Lying there, dazed, I hear him smack Thaddeus and listen to the boy's cries. Blinking, trying to clear my head, I notice the phone where it's landed on the floor nearby.  
  
"Justin!" Brian yells, his voice coming to me thin, and tinny as if from a great distance. "Justin, what's going on?"  
  
As everything gets woozy, I struggle to remain conscious, to move, to do _something_ to save myself.  
  
But I can't move.  
  
I can't move at all.


	10. Ten

**Ten: Thursday December 25 - later**

Driving as fast as I can in a fuckin' snowstorm, my heart pounding so hard it's a wonder it doesn't fly right out of my chest, I am thanking the gods I kept the Jeep because on a night like this, with the snow piling up on the side of the road and blowing all over the highway, I'd be slipping, sliding, and going nowhere in the 'Vette. Steering with one hand, I have my cell phone in the other and have already talked to Jennifer. She's going to meet me at Allegheny General because neither one of us is ready to entertain the idea that we really haven't found Justin. No. He'll be there and I'll take him to the ER and we'll deal with it.  
  
What the fuck happened? That's what I want to know. I keep replaying the final part of my conversation with the boy, but I can't make sense of it—at least not any sense that's encouraging. Someone shouted and Justin shouted back. Then I heard a sickening, all-too-familiar sound: flesh striking flesh. Someone was slapped and hit the floor with a thud loud enough for me to hear. More shouts, more slaps then footsteps. After that, the phone went dead.  
  
Fuck. I wish I could drive faster. Why the hell does there have to be a fuckin' snowstorm on the night we finally hear from him? I've gone from I-279 to the 22 to the 60, so I'm almost there, but it's still not fast enough. What if he's hurt? What if he can't escape from wherever he is? What if he got smacked so hard he's unconscious? Well, fuck it, I'll have the cops at that apartment complex so fast it'll make the building manager's head spin. If anyone laid a hand on him—one fuckin' finger—I'll be ramming someone's dick down their throat before Christmas is over. Merry Christmas to you, motherfucker.  
  
Finally, I take the Township Road exit, which intersects with Collins. I'm positive the building Justin mentioned is on the north side of the street because I had a client whose plastics factory sat like an ugly green toad in the industrial area that parallels that crappy neighborhood. My windshield wipers make sharp thwacking sounds as they work at top speed, clearing snow, but it's still piling up at an alarming rate and I have a hard time seeing anything in what's looking more and more like a blizzard. Shit, shit, shit. The knot in my stomach tightens more and I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white. If anything happens to Justin, someone's going to pay, someone's going to fucking wish they were dead.  
  
I see the apartment building, which is the tallest one in the area even though it's only about six stories, and slow down even more, hoping I'll see something, that it'll end _now_ , that I'll find him and be able to touch him and see for myself that he's all right. And, okay, yes, I wonder for the thousandth time why I ever let him go, why I let him out of my sight long enough for him to get in trouble. Fucking fiddler. Didn't he know what he had? Didn't he have a fucking clue how to treat someone so precious? Or was Justin nothing more to him than a beautiful accessory to hang on his arm? Creeping along, straining to see anything through the snow, I've just reached the corner and am about to make a right hand turn when something flashes through the swirling whiteness, something on the side of the road, something yellow, black, and gray. Then I hear muffled cries and see him—a person, a small blond person in a black coat, flailing in the drifting snow, frantically waving his arms.  
  
I'm careful to _not_ slam on the brakes, to _not_ cause the Jeep to spin out, to slow the car gradually until I can jam it into park and shove open the door. "Justin!" Throwing myself against the stinging snow that's battering everything, I make it around the Jeep, plow over a snowdrift, and reach forward to grab him, drawing him into my arms. "Shit, Justin! Shit! God, you scared me so fuckin' much!" I pull him closer, shielding him from the wind with my body.  
  
He is shivering as he claws at my coat with both hands, making a sound that's half wheeze, half frantic, wordless plea. His face pushed into my chest, bone-wracking shudders shake him and it's right about then that I recognize his behavior for what it is.   
  
He's having one of those attacks.  
  
"Easy. It's okay, Justin. Take it easy." Clutching him tightly, I try to walk him back to the car, but he's trembling with such violence his legs aren't cooperating and he nearly falls. He won't let go of my coat either, frenzied gasps still coming from him as he pulls on me. I duck my head, and wipe snow from my eyes. "Sunshine? Come on, we've got to get to the car. It's fuckin' freezing out here."  
  
He continues to hang on to me for dear life. Snow has accumulated in his hair 'til it's started to freeze. Fuck, how long has he been waiting for me?   
  
_I have to get him to the car._  
  
Picking him up, I carry him to the Jeep, throw open the door, and set him inside. He refuses to let go of me, so I climb into the passenger side, and shut the door, pulling him onto my lap. One arm around his shoulders, I manage to turn up the car's heat, not surprised when he lays his head against the crook of my neck and continues to shake. The rattle I hear in his breathing sends fresh chills down my spine. He wraps an icy hand around my neck, entwines one leg with mine, and we sit there, the snow swirling all around us as I pet his wet hair, inhaling the damp wool scent of his coat and try to imbue him with some sense of security, of comfort. Whispering nonsense, I say anything that'll remind him who I am, who we are, that he's safe, that he can come back from that dark place his mind takes him when things get too rough.   
  
Fighting the desire to make him turn his head so I can get a good look at his face, I hold him snugly, and let the attack subside, rubbing his arms, pressing my body's warmth against his, doing everything except praying, and I fucking would do that too if I knew how. With his shoulders hunched forward, his head pressed against me, his arms now tucked in under his body, he looks like he's trying to push himself into me.  
  
"Brian?" he whispers after at least ten minutes of this.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Are y-you really here?"  
  
Sliding my hand underneath his scarf, I press my fingers against his neck, concerned by how cold his skin is. "Feel that?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"That's me, Sunshine. I'm here and I've got you."  
  
Fresh tremors rock him and his breathing accelerates. "I didn't know what to do," he says in a voice filled with near-hysterical incredulity. "Those men … everywhere I went, they kept chasing me."  
  
Chasing him? I tip up his chin so I can look into his eyes and my stomach drops. He has a reddened mark on one side of his face, deep, exhausted smudges of blue under both eyes, and he's deathly pale, an unnatural color even for him. "Look at me." I wait until those dark blue eyes fix on mine and use my thumb to wipe away the wetness I see there. Then I put my hand on his chest. "I want you to breathe slowly, okay? As deeply as possible. And I don't want you worrying about anything right now. You're here, and you're safe. I'm taking you to the hospital—"  
  
"The hospital?" Fear flares in his eyes. "But what if they—"  
  
"Justin?" I cup his face between my hands and watch as his eyes close, the relief in his expression almost palpable as he presses himself against me. "You're sick. You need to see a doctor. I'll be there and so will your mom. I want you to relax and let us do this for you, okay?"  
  
"Okay," he says in a tiny whisper. "But you won't … you promise, you won't leave?"  
  
"I promise." Pulling him to me again, I rub his back. "Besides, by the time we get to the hospital the whole gang will probably be there. Emmett, Ted, Debbie, Michael—"  
  
He jerks quickly back. "No! No Michael! I don't want to see him! I don't want to see any of them!"  
  
Shit. I rub his arms. "Shh, that's okay. No Michael, no one you don't want to see." Why the fuck is he so afraid of Michael? I give him another tight hug. "It's gonna be all right, Justin. Okay? I promise you."  
  
"But there are things I don't remember and I feel like I'm going crazy and—"  
  
"Justin?" I make my voice firm, but not angry, a tone I hope he remembers from when we were living together after the bashing. Shit. What am I thinking? I need to stop fooling myself. That's exactly who he is right now. "You have to stop. We need to get out of here." I kiss his forehead and he tightens his grip on me. "I'm gonna get out and go around the car. Then we're driving to Allegheny General to get you treated. Okay?"  
  
Inhaling slowly, struggling to regain his composure, he nods.   
  
Giving him another moment, I pry myself free, scoot out from under him as I push open the door, taking time to pull the seat belt across him before I go around to the driver's side. He's watching anxiously as I get into the car so I give him a reassuring smile. He takes my hand for a moment, his fingers pressing into my flesh. Fuck, something happened to him up there and I want to find whoever put that mark on him and pound him into the ground, but Justin's breathing is funny and he looks like hell. I can't take the time, not now.   
  
As I put the car into gear, my cell phone rings. Pulling back onto the snow-covered road, I check the display. "Sunshine? It's your mom. Wanna talk to her?"  
  
Tears fill his eyes, but he nods and takes the phone, pressing the talk button. "Mom?" he whispers as I turn the Jeep back toward the 60.   
  
I don't have to hear the conversation to know the happiness he's hearing in Jennifer's voice.


	11. Eleven

**Eleven: Thursday December 25, early morning**

"It's called [Post-Concussion Syndrome](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Postconcussive_syndrome)," Dr. Clayton Rambert says to Jennifer and me as we stand in the hall down from Justin's curtained examination area in the treatment section inside the ER. "He doesn't remember hitting his head, but he showed me the spot where he found a lump, so it's obvious he did."  
  
We've been here awhile and already I'm jittery. Fuck, I hate hospitals, although it was never much of a problem until the thing with Justin. Now I'm sweating, yet feel cold, and I'm fighting nausea too. Given the overwhelming smell of puke-covered-by-antiseptic-cleaner is it any wonder? "But there's nothing on the CT?" I ask the doctor, worried about the fact that Justin's already had one head injury.  
  
"No, there was no detectable trauma, which is good. We know he suffered a concussion so we know he took a significant blow to the head, but not one so serious that any physical damage was done." The doctor, a short, balding man with a rather large nose he habitually scratches, tightens his lips as he focuses on Jennifer. "You should, though, make sure he sees Dr. Radnor, to follow up."  
  
Radnor, I know, is the neurologist who handled the injury after the bashing. I spent many afternoons in his fuckin' office with a fidgety Justin in tow. "So, he's getting IV antibiotics right now," I say, ticking things off with my fingers to make sure I have this right, "you'll follow up with antibiotics in pill form, cough syrup, something to help him sleep, and a pain pill for the headaches?"  
  
"And you're sure you've checked with Dr. Merriweather about his allergies?" Jennifer asks, as nervous as I am. Merriweather is Justin's primary care physician. Fuck, it's amazing the things I know about this kid.   
  
"Yes. In fact I double-checked Justin's medical records just to be sure, but feel free to confirm the meds against your own list." Dr. Rambert scratches his nose. "Uh, so post-concussion syndrome. Patients can present a wide range of symptoms." He hands us both a tri-fold flyer with the hospital's logo on it and the phrase, _WHAT IS PCS?_ in big letters across the front. He opens up Jennifer's copy of the pamphlet. "Physical symptoms can include headaches, which appear to be one of Justin's biggest problems, sensitivity to noise or light, fatigue or sleepiness, dizziness, and so on." He points to the flyer. "Emotional symptoms, as you can see, are also very broad and vary with the person. Depression, anxiety, irritability, restlessness." Again, he points, and now I'm getting fuckin' tired of the lecture and want to get back to Justin. "And lastly, but most importantly, _cognitive_ symptoms. Amnesia or difficulty remembering things or being able to concentrate, confusion, difficulty with abstract thinking." He grimaces. "It's quite a laundry list."  
  
"So, Justin has amnesia?" Jennifer asks, a ragged tone to her voice. "You're sure about that? And if that's true, how long will he have it?"  
  
"Mr. Kinney tells me he thinks he's eighteen and just starting college when in fact, he's in his sophomore year."  
  
"Yeah, and he thinks he's living with me," I say, because I'm worried about how we're going to deal with that.  
  
Dr. Rambert frowns. "He isn't?"  
  
"Not for nearly five months."  
  
"Well, that might be a problem. He's told me several times he's going home with you. In fact, he's anxious about that because he feels like he needs to stay close." The doctor slides a PDA from his pocket and checks something on the screen. "As for a timeframe, Mrs. Taylor, unfortunately, there isn't one. He could recover his memory tomorrow, or six months from now. There's no way of knowing."   
  
"Could it be a permanent condition?" I ask the doctor. Thanks to the bashing, there are some things Justin still doesn't remember—like the prom. Could this be the same way?  
  
"Most likely he will recover his memory, but, with head injuries, that's always a possibility." The doctor grimaces. "There's just no way of knowing."  
  
"Are there ways we can help?" Jennifer asks. "Therapy, for instance, or something we can do to facilitate his recovery?"  
  
"No, not really. Uh, making an informed decision about his living arrangements would be a good start," Dr. Rambert says pointedly, looking a little prissy.   
  
"That's been decided. He'll come live with me." Jennifer's voice tightens as she tries to sound adamant. She gives me a look that encourages me not to argue. But, even though I must be crazy, I know I'm going to fight her on this.  
  
"He's dealing with a fairly severe level of anxiety. Something about men chasing him," the doctor adds, almost an aside.  
  
"Do you think he's hallucinating?" Jennifer looks very anxious as she asks the question. "I mean, who would be chasing him? Is that part of this … post-concussion syndrome?"  
  
"Not usually, but it's possible he's confusing dreams with real life—that could happen."  
  
"Doctor?" I rake my hand back through my hair, taking deep breaths as I try to figure out how to say this. "Should we just tell him the truth? Update him on … everything?"  
  
Rambert is keying something into the PDA, but glances up at me. "May I be blunt, Mr. Kinney?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
You and he were lovers?"  
  
The lack of sleep is getting to me because right away I want to snap at him. "Yeah."  
  
"And then it ended?"  
  
"Yeah, that's right. He just broke up with the … " I stop before I can say "asshole," "with the guy he was living with." The fucking fiddler. I'd still like to drop-kick his scrawny ass from here to Altoona.   
  
"But the two of you had a rather significant relationship?"  
  
Shit. I glance at Jennifer and, yeah, she's shooting daggers at me. "He was … it was pretty, uh, significant for him." Even to _my_ ears that sounds shitty. Hand shoved into the pocket of my jacket, I finger the polished surface of my lighter, wanting a cigarette so bad. "Yeah, it was significant," I manage to say when I think about the kid down the hall and all the grief I've put him through. Can't I give him that much? Fuck, _I'm_ the asshole.  
  
"Well, I'm not trying to give you advice, which would be more the purview of a psychologist, but in my opinion, if you tell him the truth about the two of you at this point and try to make him accept the fact that your relationship has ended, you stand a real chance of doing him harm."  
  
"Doing him harm how?" And, yes, now I _am_ snapping at him.  
  
Dr. Rambert finishes tapping on the fuckin' PDA and slips it back into his pocket. "Increasing his anxiety to such a level it'll impede his ability to recover. Even if you patiently explain to him what happened to the two of you, in _his_ mind he's still living during a time when all was well. You're asking him to process something that happened, I'm assuming, over weeks or even months as your relationship deteriorated. That's bound to have a deleterious effect. I'm sure you remember from his previous injury that a calm, secure environment is essential to any kind of recovery."  
  
"But I can provide a calm, secure environment," Jennifer protests.  
  
"I'm sure you can, but is it the one _Justin_ wants?" Rambert scratches his nose again. "You'll have to decide what's more important: making sure he gets well, or telling him the unvarnished truth. Obviously, you should explain the amnesia to him, although I'm sure he's pretty much figured out something is wrong—he said as much to me. But as for the specifics of your relationship and where he ends up staying …" Rambert shakes his head. "Of course, he's an adult and he can make his own decisions." He gives me a scrutinizing look. "Unless, of course, you feel strongly that he can't live with you even in some kind of platonic situation—"  
  
"No—no, it wouldn't be a problem." The words come marching out of my mouth, but they're nothing but a big, fat lie. Since when have Justin and I been anything but—fuck! okay, I'll say it!— _lovers_? Looking over at Jen, I see she's mulling over the doctor's words. "Uh, could we have a moment, doc?"  
  
"Sure," Rambert says and turns on his heel.  
  
As he walks down the hall, I cross my arms, take a deep breath, and try to ignore all the wheelchairs, stretchers, IV lines, neck braces, bloody bandages, and groaning, complaining people I see everywhere. God, I fuckin' hate hospitals. I give Jennifer a look. "We're agreed on one thing, aren't we? We need to do what's best for Justin."  
  
"Brian, I don't see how you can suggest we lie to him!"  
  
"You heard what the doctor said."  
  
"I know, but if we're gentle about it, if we make him understand that it wasn't his fault, that the two of you just moved on …"  
  
"You think that'll be enough?" I wave a hand toward the area where Justin lies, my voice dropping even though we're too far away to be heard. "Fuck, Jennifer, you saw how he was." When we came into the ER, it had been impossible to pry Justin away from me without the boy's tenuous emotions taking a dramatic nosedive. I sat with him through much of his initial examination, holding his hand, repeating instructions because he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything except making sure I remained nearby. He was a mess. We'd only been able to leave him because, before they took him down to the CT lab, they'd given him something that made him sleepy. He'd returned around fifteen minutes ago, but already I felt like I needed to connect with him so he didn't start freaking out again. "The whole time he was on the street, he was trying to get back to _me_ , the person he trusts. Whether you think I'm worthy of that trust or not, the reality is, we're back to that time, Jen. We're no longer dealing with the present."  
  
"I realize that but—"  
  
"I tell you what." Right away, I take on my adman role, knowing I somehow have to convince her that this is the right thing to do. Experts, we need experts. "I have a friend, a psychologist. I consulted him about the flashback episodes Justin was having last year. He's the one who suggested I do the reenactments. How about I call him and see what he thinks?"  
  
Not to be outdone, Jennifer stands taller, throwing back her shoulders, going all glinty-eyed. The woman is a force of nature, but, fuck, I admire her mother tiger stance. "I have a friend who's a clinical psychologist—a very good one, whose opinion I trust. Jeannette Conoson. I'll call her."  
  
Managing not to shudder when I see a bloody man on a stretcher emerge from behind one of the curtains, I nod, pulling out my cell phone while she pulls out hers. We walk away from the treatment area, down a long hall to a small side entrance that takes us outside, far enough that our cell phones won't be a problem.  
  
It's fuckin' 6:00 am Christmas morning, so everyone's at home, and no one is thrilled to have their happy holiday morning interrupted. Matthew's partner curses me out for waking them before he hands the phone to Matthew. But the upside is it doesn't take us long to get our answers.  
  
"She said it's the lesser of two evils," Jennifer tells me in a quiet voice as she returns to where I'm standing, closing her cell phone, and dropping it into her pocket in a weary gesture. Even though she's got on her overcoat, she hugs her arms against the cold. "If he's emotionally fragile, she said now is not the time to force the truth onto him." She runs her hand through her hair, looking tired and defeated. "She said that, uh, later, when he learns the truth, he'll be devastated and angry that we lied to him, but by then, hopefully, he'd also be stronger, physically and emotionally, and better able to deal with the whole thing."  
  
I'd gotten similar advice from Matthew. Shit, even though I think it's the right thing, it makes me fuckin' uneasy. I don't want to lie to the kid. How can he go on trusting me if I can't tell him the truth? Although, who am I fooling with this bullshit? I've lied to him before. Many times. I told him I'd never visited him in the hospital. When I was moving to New York, I told him I wouldn't think about him. And that night outside the loft, I told him he was nothing to me but a fuck, although, even then that wasn't true. And every lie … I told myself I did it for his own good, that I pushed him away in order to save him—from _me_. So, what am I doing now? Lying to him to save him again … from me and my insanity, an insanity that had driven him away in the first place?  
  
Shit.  
  
"That's, uh … what Matthew, my psychologist friend, said too," I tell Jennifer, hiding all my disquietude. "I guess …" I bite my lower lip, looking her in the eye. "It looks like we're back to square one, Jennifer. You have to let me have your son. Again."  
  
Her face cycles through anger then sadness before it settles on a weary resignation. "Like I told you then, Brian, I don't doubt that you love him." She gives me a tight smile. "Of course, he can make his own decisions about who he lives with, but …" She gives her head a shake.  
  
"I know. Lying to him doesn't seem to be doing him any favors."  
  
"What will we tell him? He's bound to notice all the differences, don't you think?"   
  
"Well, he's had some memory loss, so I guess we'll just tell him he forgot." We stare at each other and I can tell she's feeling as bad about the whole thing as I am.  
  
Jennifer's eyes appear to harden, the blue intensifying. "So help me God, Brian. Don't fuck this up. You have a second chance to make it right. _Don't_ hurt him again."  
  
All I can do is nod.   
  
Jennifer inhales. "All right." Her hand goes out, palm up. "Give me the key to the loft."  
  
Again, I stare.  
  
Her fingers wiggle impatiently. "Do you have a spare, so you can get in later?"  
  
"Yeah." I take the key off the ring and hand it over, giving her the building and alarm codes. "You're going to get Justin's things?" I ask although it seems patently obvious.  
  
"Someone has to and it sure as hell can't be you."   
  
"Deb and Vic are in the waiting area up front—they could help you."  
  
"I'm counting on that. Emmett's there too."  
  
"Good. So, Ian has everything packed up?"  
  
"That's what he told me." She pulls a set of keys from her pocket. "Make sure your cell's on because when we get there, we're going to need your help to know where to put things."  
  
"All right." This is surreal. Now we're trying to make it look like Justin's been living in the loft by putting back all his personal items to give the place that Justin-lived-in look? Shit. But what the fuck else are we going to do? "Since he just started the IV antibiotics, I'm guessing it'll be awhile until they release him."  
  
She exhales with a great deal of drama. "Just make sure we have enough time." Steely-eyed, she gives me one final nod, turns on her heel, and walks toward the parking lot, pulling out her cell phone, her boots making a crunching sound as she goes.  
  
Staring after her, all I can think about is this crazy thing we're doing, two adults working diligently to fool a nineteen-year-old boy with amnesia into believing that, relationship-wise, things are super peachy keen and fine when they're not—they're fuckin' not. Justin is going to be so pissed when his memory returns. And what am I gonna tell him then? _I did it because I love you and wanted to take care of you?_  
  
Yeah, like that's going to make a difference.   
  
Fuck, I am such an idiot. I could've avoided this whole thing. Right now, I could be waking up on Christmas morning with Justin by my side, trying to look bored, though I'd be secretly amused, as he gleefully bounced off the walls in anticipation of the day.   
  
Shit.  
  
With a sigh, I head back inside to Justin.


	12. Twelve

**Twelve: Thursday December 25, mid-morning**

We finally make it back to the loft at 9:30 that morning. Admittedly, I'm a little nervous at what Jennifer and her cohorts have been attempting to do while I've been at the hospital with Justin. Several times, my cell phone rang and I had to give cryptic answers to questions about where this or that item needed to be placed. I'm prepared to tell Justin he just doesn't remember he moved his shaving stuff to the other side of the sink, or something like that, but if too many things seem out of place to him, he's going to be suspicious. It'll be hard enough explaining the decorating I did, but it _is_ fairly recent so I'm just going to tell him all the Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier he'll see … yeah, that's right, he's forgotten it. Actually, given his current emotional state, he'll probably be okay with stuff like that as long as he believes _we're_ still the same. As fucked up as it is, I'm the center of his universe. And that's why I'm doing this, right? To be that rock to him, to keep him calm, to give him a sense of security and comfort.   
  
I have to keep telling myself that.  
  
As I unlock the door, Justin crowds in close, shooting looks back at the elevator and stairs like he's expecting someone. He's carrying a white plastic bag that has his instructions from the hospital and meds in it, and suddenly I'm wondering what happened to his messenger bag. He always had that thing draped over his shoulder no matter where he went. Putting my arm around him, I slide the door open. "While you were out there on the street, didn't you have a …" Right then, I realize the messenger bag came _later_ in Justin's world. Shit, is this what I'm going to be doing from now on? Censoring myself? "Uh, a backpack? Something like that?"   
  
Eyes half-lidded, Justin waits while I lock the door. "Are you gonna alarm it?" he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper because of all the coughing.  
  
The men chasing him. Right. "Of course." I punch in the code and we watch as the red light blinks rapidly then gives two sharp beeps.   
  
"I had a backpack," Justin says as we walk further into the room, his sleepy demeanor the same as it's been the last few hours. He looks around the loft, but nothing seems to be registering. There's no lights on except the one in the kitchen, the curtains are drawn, and the day outside is overcast, with more snow expected, so maybe it's because he can't see much of anything. "I bought it at the airport; it carried cold medicine and water mostly."   
  
"What happened to it?"  
  
"It's still back at the apartment."  
  
Yeah, the apartment—a place I'll be visiting sometime soon to have a little chat with that fuckin' pimp, Mitch. So far, all I've managed to discover is that Mitch hit Justin after he escaped from a locked room, but, somehow, Justin managed to get away from him and out of the apartment. He really didn't want to talk about it, but I'm not happy with that account, brief as it is. "Well, let's not worry about that now." Calm environment, right? That probably includes _me_ remaining calm.  
  
I take the bag from him and lay it on the kitchen counter then, when I realize he's just standing there, help him remove his coat and scarf, sliding his arms out of the black pea coat like he's a three-year-old. "How about you take a shower? I bet that'll feel good. I'll fix you something to eat and then we can both get some sleep."  
  
He wraps his arms around my waist, his head on my chest, his words guileless. "Are you gonna shower with me?"   
  
Well, fuck, that didn't take long. I knew I'd be dealing with the whole non-platonic nature of our relationship, but I'd hoped it might take more than a few hours to get to the first crisis. The thing is, in order to pull off this charade, I'll have to fuck him. Not that I _mind_. Shit no, of course I don't mind. I've been thinking about fucking him ever since he left. You might even say I was obsessed. But here I am between the proverbial rock and a hard place … no pun intended. If I fuck him, I'm taking advantage of a situation that's outside his control even though he doesn't know it. He doesn't realize we broke up, he doesn't realize he wouldn't be in my bed, that I wouldn't be fucking him. At some point, he _will_ realize it, though, and when he does he'll hate my guts. On the other hand, if I don't behave as if we're still who we were before he'll catch on quickly, and if that happens, he'll implode. He's a tough little fucker, but right now he's coming off some heavy shit and he's recovering from _another_ head injury. I can't take that chance. I won't.  
  
With a smile, I kiss him on the forehead. "I think I'll pass this time," I say, and stick my tongue in my cheek to keep it light. Gripping him by the shoulders, I stare at the fuckin' bruise on his cheek and realize again how grateful I am that he's here and safe, that I'm able to touch him, to know that he's all right. "I'm … glad you're home." The words pop out before I even know it, but I immediately see it was the right thing to say. His tender smile warms the light in his eyes even more and he lifts up on his toes to kiss me, a soft brushing of lips that deepens momentarily when he runs his tongue across my mouth and slips inside to reacquaint himself with my teeth and tongue. Then he turns and goes into the bathroom.  
  
When he's gone, I stand there like I'm stuck to the floor, listening to the hissing sound of water hitting tile. I touch fingertips to my lips, the taste of him still on my tongue. His kisses are so sweet; they always have been. Not cloyingly sweet, like a glazed donut, but a gentle, barely there sweetness like, well, like a honeydew—light and invigorating. Kissing him for any length of time gives me a buzz. God, how I've missed those kisses, how I've missed _him_. Even as I stand there, though, from somewhere deep inside, the counterpoint to those words automatically flares up in me: _It means nothing, don't let it bother you, love is bullshit, it's pain, pure and simple, look what he did before, don't go down that road again. Warning-warning-warning._ Shutting my eyes, I give my head a firm shake. Shit! I'm not thinking about this right now. What the fuck good would it do? Besides, he's here, it's a done deal. There's no use second-guessing myself now, is there? For fuck's sake, do this thing … and do it right this time.  
  
I make a quick tour of the loft, checking drawers, the closet, his art supplies, the place in the kitchen where he keeps that stupid Blue Meanies mug I gave him—what a lapse in judgment that was. It all looks fine—Jennifer and the gang did a good job. I'm a little worried that he's got so many clothes now that he didn't have before. But we told him that, he knows things are going to be different, he realizes he's lost a lot of time.   
  
Back in the bedroom, I pull out sweatpants for him and then, knowing he'll like it, one of my tee shirts, laying the clothes on the bed. Sitting down next to them, I can feel the exhaustion creep over me. Eyes closing, I rub my face, mentally picking over things one more time to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. Cynthia knows I'll be out of the office the rest of the week. Horvath will be looking into this asshole, Mitch Reynolds. Debbie and Jennifer are planning on bringing food later in the day although I told them not to bring company when they did. Right now, my number one priority is to make sure Justin rests, that he takes his meds, that he doesn't worry. I'll fight with him about eating later. Then I remember the antibiotics and pain meds the doctor wanted him taking after he got home. In the kitchen once more, I dump the contents of the hospital bag onto the counter and find the right bottles, shaking out some capsules. Retrieving some water from the refrigerator, I open a second bottle and take a long drink, grateful for the cool liquid that soothes my parched throat. I'm walking back to the bedroom when Justin comes out of the bathroom, nude, a towel in hand.  
  
Blinking, I don't look away, but try not to stare although that isn't easy. He's got an amazing body, one I've always loved … one I haven't seen in awhile. Yeah, it's true, he's not about rock-hard abs or defined six-packs, but bodies like that are a dime a dozen. Instead, he's all about smooth, firm young flesh, impossibly pale, impossibly silky to the touch. And _surprises_ , wonderful surprises like that dip at the base of his spine that leads to an ass unparalleled in the history of great asses, two generous mounds of pliant softness that …   
  
Fumbling and already half-erect, I lay the meds and water down on the bedside table, and take the towel. I mop his back with great care, studying the lovely rise of that ass as I wipe downward. Turning him around, I make a great show of dabbing water from his chest, but take time to notice his cock is still where it should be, still lovely in its pinkness, on instant alert as he notices where my eyes have strayed. I clear my throat, dropping the towel. "Don't stand around with nothing on. You'll get chilled." I kiss his nose then hand him his sweatpants.  
  
Justin smiles and it occurs to me that nothing could be more convincing to him that everything's normal than my interest in his cock. Okay, good. I'm doing my job. Although … fuck, we're back to the time after the bashing when he first came to live with me because I was confused then too. It's not like me to be confused, but when you're trying to be a kind of father to a teenager one moment and wanting to fuck him the next … yeah, that's confusing.  
  
He shoves his legs into the sweatpants, fingering the fabric. "I don't recognize these."  
  
"Remember what the doctor said? A lot of things will be unfamiliar."  
  
Lips pressed together, he nods and puts on the tee shirt, smiling as he does. "But I recognize this." He runs his hands down the front of the shirt like someone sewed diamonds into the fabric.   
  
I feel a twinge in my heart, one I am fuckin' going to ignore. "Good." He turns back into my arms. Running a hand through hair like strands of silk, the scent of Justin's green tea and aloe shampoo comes to me. God, I missed that too. "You need to take your antibiotics and pain pills."  
  
He huffs against my chest. "I hate the pain pill. It makes me sleepy and reminds me of Mitch—all that stuff."  
  
"Mitch was an asshole who's going to be in prison soon. This is prescribed by your doctor." I hold out the pills and he takes them, head tilted back while he chugs water. Watching the way his throat works, it's all I can do not to kiss my way up that neck then throw him down on the bed. Fuck, the non-platonic part isn't giving me much trouble, is it? Before I realize it, he's returned to my embrace.  
  
A deep sigh escapes him. "I'm glad you found me."  
  
"I am too."  
  
"All of this stuff about the amnesia … I don't understand it. I feel so fucked up in the head and it's hard–"  
  
"But right now you're gonna lay down in bed and not worry about that shit."  
  
He lifts his head to look at me. "Because everything's all right?"  
  
"Yeah, it is." I take a deep breath and the words come easier than I thought they would. "You're here with me. We're together. That's all that matters."  
  
He smiles and looks surprised at the sentiment. "You got scared when I was gone."  
  
"You're right. I did." With more reluctance than I want to acknowledge, I release him. "Let's get in bed. I'm exhausted."  
  
He watches as I pull back the covers, but just as it looks like he's going to get in the bed, a thought crosses his face. "Oh, wait." He turns and goes back into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with his discarded clothes. Rustling around in one of the pockets of his pants, he grimaces. "I'm sorry, Brian. I don't know how I got this."  
  
He holds out the prototype.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Taking it from him, I lay it on the table next to the bed, and kiss Justin again when I see his concerned face. "That's all right. Let's not worry about it right now." Quickly, stripping off my clothes, I follow Justin into bed. He turns around a few times before he settles on his left side, his back to me. I know the position well and move in behind him, pulling him snug against my chest, my left arm cradling his neck, our legs tangled, my right arm snaked over his body 'til I can grasp his hand.   
  
Another deep sigh escapes him. "God, I'm so glad I'm back."  
  
I kiss his shoulder and refuse to think what it means that he had Christian's fuckin' million dollar toy in his possession. "Me too, Sunshine. Me too."


	13. Thirteen

**Thirteen: Thursday December 25, late afternoon**

When I wake up, Brian's gone. It's dumb, but, for a moment, I panic. I'm not sure what to think, that he disappeared into thin air, walked out of the loft, or maybe I dreamed the whole thing. But since I'm not being rational, it doesn't really matter. Breathing a little hard, I look around. It's dusk outside which means I've slept for a long time. Then I hear voices.  
  
One voice in particular.  
  
"Fuck you, Brian, I'm not the enemy here!"  
  
Shit. It's Michael. No one's talking loud, but I'd know his voice anywhere. Before I realize it, I'm sitting up in bed and scooting to the edge. Am I about to bolt for the bathroom? I'm not sure, but at that moment, I stop because now I can hear them clearly.  
  
"I told you, Ma asked me to bring the food over. Have you seen the roads out there?" Michael sounds irritated, his voice high-pitched. "I'm not letting her drive when—"  
  
"And I told you, Mikey, thank you, but I don't want Justin waking up and freaking because he finds you here." Brian sounds pissed.  
  
Michael's voice rises, his tone accusatory. "In other words, you just want me to get the hell out of here, _now_!"  
  
With a loud gasp, I'm swept by a wave of dizziness so intense I feel like I'm falling, as if the bed's been jerked out from under me. Bracing my hands in front of me, I close my eyes, afraid to see the ground rushing up to meet me even though I haven't moved one inch.  
  
"Justin, what's wrong?" In an instant, Brian is there. Strong hands grip my arms. "Justin? Come on, it's all right. Open your eyes."  
  
As Brian pulls me into an embrace, my plunge into nothingness abruptly ends. He's holding me close, his warm hand cradling my face so that I have to look at him, that same concerned expression in his eyes. "Shit." I'm shaking, which I really hate. All I can do is hang onto him. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I heard Michael say something and it freaked me out." Blinking, I try to keep my focus on Brian's face because it makes me feel better, but right then, like a nightmarish vortex that just keeps spiraling downward, Michael is suddenly standing on the bedroom steps.  
  
"Hey, Justin." He has a sappy grin on his face like we've just run into each other at Woody's. "Just wanted to say how much I—"  
  
This time, at least, I don't go into a freefall, but that's the only good news. Flinching, I bury my face in Brian's chest, grabbing him so tightly around the neck it's a wonder I don't strangle him. Shit, I am so fucked up.   
  
"Michael, go home," Brian says in a voice that brooks no challenge.   
  
"Look, I just wanted to—"  
  
"Go. Home." Brian's voice is low. Peeking up at him, I see that his lips are pressed together in that non-negotiable way he has. His glower could melt paint off walls, but Michael isn't budging.  
  
"I just …" Michael's brown eyes widen as he and Brian have a staring contest. Of course, Michael loses. "Fine." Without another word, he turns away.  
  
After that little exchange, I watch Mikey's retreating figure until he disappears from sight. A moment later, the loft door rolls open and then shuts with a metallic clunk. Only then do I manage to take my first real look around the loft. When we got here this morning, I wasn't really paying attention to anything except Brian: his hands on me, his voice telling me what to do, his presence all around me like a big, strong wall no one could breach. Now, though, with all my senses on overload, thanks to this insane fear-of-Michael thing, I'm seeing things.  
  
"Justin?"  
  
Brian looks worried. "Everything's different," I tell him.  
  
"We talked about that, remember?"  
  
Brian is freaking me out too, being so sweet and gentle, kind of like some un-Brian character from a Stephen King novel. He's like he was that first week or two after I came to live here, after the bashing, almost as if we've rewound ourselves a few months and he'll be holding me again when I have nightmares and reminding me to take my anticonvulsants. Only now it'll be antibiotics. And it's _not_ a few months, is it? It's longer, much longer. "Talked about …" I stop to cough, covering my mouth and turning away from Brian, but then I can't remember what I was saying.  
  
"How things would be different ...?" Brian says, trying to help.  
  
"Oh." I look at the closet door and know it didn't used to be opaque like that. And the bedspread … why's it that golden brown color instead of blue? Fuck, this is going to make me crazier than I already am. "Okay, I guess it's freaking me out."   
  
Brian brushes the hair out of my eyes then kisses a spot on my forehead. "Look, I did some redecoration—actually, it happened fairly recently. It's part of what you've forgotten, but that's okay. Furniture isn't all that important, is it?" He tilts his head to one side, his eyes—which right now look intensely green—sparkling as he watches me. "I assure you, it's all sturdy and very fuck-worthy."  
  
He gets what he wants because I smile just before he kisses me. Leaning into the kiss, my eyes close automatically as I lay the flats of my hands on his chest. For a long moment, he trails kisses like little flickers of fire across my cheek to my ear, licking the spot there that always makes me shiver. Which, of course, is just what he wants—to ease me out of the paranoia.  
  
"Okay, it's time to eat," he says when he comes away from the kiss. "We've got enough turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, rolls, pumpkin pie, and more to last through New Years."  
  
"I'm not really hungry."  
  
Brian gestures toward the kitchen. "You're not going to abandon me, are you? They sent so much food because they knew _you_ were here."  
  
Grinning, I finally stand up, but do it too fast and grab for his hand when another wave of dizziness assaults me.  
  
"Careful." His hand grasps mine and a second later he's next to me, one hand on my shoulder. "Let's take it easy, huh? I just got you back in one piece and I'd like to keep you that way."  
  
Smiling, I go into the bathroom to take a piss, looking around at stuff like I've never seen it before. My mind ticks off everything that seems strange, but the truth is, the thing that bothers me the most, when I think about it, is Brian. And it's something I can't define. Even last night, when he sat with me at Allegheny General, there was something about him. Call it a sadness because I'm not sure any other word works as well as that. It reminds me of another time in our lives, but I can't quite put my finger on _what_ time.   
  
I pick up my toothbrush. It's blue, but I know my last toothbrush was red. Is this how it's going to be? Me with so many gaps in my memory that I you could strain pasta through it? When I start feeling better, I think I'm going to be really pissed. After all, I've done all these things that I can't remember now. Classes at PIFA, talks with Daphne, fantastic fucks with Brian. Now it's like someone reformatted the hard drive in my brain and that's … well, that's very fucked up.  
  
Brian is busily nuking our dinner in the microwave and, for a moment, I just stand at the top of the bedroom steps and watch him. In his jeans and sleeveless sweater he's so beautiful and I love him so much, especially now after what he did. I can still see his expression when he came charging out of the Jeep to save me back on Collins Avenue. Talk about the cavalry coming to the rescue. Damn, I never felt anything as good as his sturdy body pressed against mine after he battled his way through that snowdrift. Right after that, I had a flashback episode because I don't remember anything again until I found myself inside the car, hanging onto Brian. He was whispering stuff to me, the kind of stuff you might say in bed to someone you really loved. It worked, too, because I calmed down right away.  
  
What a crazy twenty-four hours it's been. First, a pimp who wanted me to join his happy little family locked me up when I wouldn't. Then I got sprung, but ended up on the floor about five minutes later when Dr. Jekyll came roaring in, doing his impression of Mr. Hyde. For a minute, I thought I'd end up back in that room, but desperation does amazing things. After he smacked me down, he came over to where I lay, probably intent on showing me once and for all who was boss. It seemed clear to me we'd moved into Phase II: beat the fledgling whore into submission. That's when I used the heel of my sneaker to kick him in the knee as hard as I could. It must've hurt given how loudly he screamed and how solidly he went down. That's when I ran.  
  
"Hey, blond boy."  
  
Looking down, I see Brian standing there, smiling up at me. "Okay, I'm dopey. Sorry. It's the meds."  
  
Predictably, one eyebrow goes up. "Really? I hadn't noticed any difference."  
  
I come down the steps to give him a light smack on the arm. "Very funny."  
  
He's laid out a feast on the dining room table. I can't believe all the food Mom and Deb sent over; there's no way we'll be able to eat even a fraction of it. I'm checking out all the choices, but right away I realize the table's different. Fuck. "You got rid of the white table and chairs? I loved that table."  
  
Brian is filling my plate with enough food to feed ten people. "Remembering some particularly good fucks on it?" he says as he plops mashed potatoes down next to the green beans. After a few slices of ham, two rolls, and some salad, he takes a seat on the side nearest me.  
  
Sitting down, I grab a fork and look at him. "Actually … " I wonder if this'll sound too sentimental, but, okay, I'll chance it. "I was thinking how we ate our first meal together at that table."  
  
Brian is chewing on something, but stops, fork raised, to contemplate my words. "Jambalaya," he says with a little nod.  
  
"Yeah." I push the green beans into the mashed potatoes. God, I was so pathetically proud of that meal. Such a kid. "Uh, what did we do while they were redecorating?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"If must've been messy, smelly, and noisy. Not bringing in the new furniture. But someone cleaned the wood paneling, right? The support posts look freshly painted. And you had the floors redone, didn't you?" I check to make sure, but the wood looks darker. "We didn't stay here while it was being done, did we? I mean, how could we?"  
  
"No. No, of course not. We, uh, went to a hotel for a few days." Brian is cutting a piece of turkey.  
  
"What hotel?"  
  
"Eat your dinner."  
  
"I'm eating." I shove a piece of ham into my mouth and chew, surprised when some of the smoky saltiness actually comes through. Wow, the drugs _are_ working. "Come on, Brian. I'm missing all this information about our lives. I'm just trying to fill in the gaps."  
  
"I understand." Brian crosses one leg over the other and smoothes out his napkin. "We spent a few days at the Westin, although I did have to go into the office."  
  
"Was there a Jacuzzi?"  
  
Brian rolls his eyes.   
  
"We fucked in the Jacuzzi?"  
  
"You have to ask?"  
  
I grin and eat some mashed potatoes. Maybe I do have a little appetite, which is a good thing. As long as Michael, Mafia guys, and pimps stay away from me, I might do all right. "So, how'd I get lost?" I ask the instant the question pops into my mind. My brain is still seriously not working and, even though I now know why, it's still weird how hard it is to think ... or, apparently, have any kind of impulse control.  
  
Brian's expression darkens just a bit. "That's the mystery, isn't it?"  
  
"No, I don't mean that. I mean, where were you? How come I was out there so long and you didn't know it?"  
  
"I was in Philly on business. For four days."  
  
"But I was gone over a week."  
  
Brian lays his fork on his plate and stares at me, but I can't read his expression. "And you're wondering why I wasn't tracking you more closely? That it took four days to discover you were gone?"  
  
Wow, see what I mean? My stupid, fucked up brain. I can't work through these things before asking them. "I dunno … I guess that's what I mean."  
  
Playing with his napkin, Brian's gaze does not meet mine. "Justin, you've lost approximately fourteen months of time. Like I said, we're not going to worry a lot about that because it's not important. But keep in mind, things happened during that period. Things that altered the way we operated."  
  
That sounds a little scary. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean, you became more independent." He looks at me and there it is, that same expression, a pain behind his eyes, one that's coming through muted, for my benefit. "You were a sophomore in college and you had other interests. We were on more of an equal footing and—"  
  
"A sophomore?" I can't help it, I'm a little rocked by that news. Didn't I just start my freshman year? "How can I be a sophomore if I'm only eighteen?" Then I remember. It's _December 2003_ not October 2002 like it ought to be … at least in my mind. "Oh, my God, I had a birthday."  
  
"Yeah, you did."  
  
"Was it a good one?"  
  
"Uh, sure."  
  
"What did I do? Did I have a party? Did you give me a present?" Man, I am seriously blurting out things and need to stop. I know how Brian is about that stuff. Why am I asking him?  
  
He picks up his knife and fork and is carefully cutting more turkey into tiny pieces, the only sound in the room the clink of cutlery against china. "You, uh, went to a concert with Lindsay and Melanie," he says before jamming a piece of turkey into his mouth. He doesn't look happy. "And, yeah, I gave you a present." Again, he sets the fork down, wiping at his mouth. "A hustler."  
  
My mouth drops open as I stare at him. A hustler? He gave me a prostitute? For my _birthday_? Fuck. Okay, obviously I did that with my "present," but still ... "He … uh, he wasn't young, was he? I mean, really young?" For some reason, all I can think about is Thaddeus and it's making me sick.  
  
"No." Brian shakes his head. "In his twenties. Very good looking."  
  
Right then, as another one of those mysterious expressions grips his features, it hits me what I'm seeing. _Birthdays_ , that's the key. And not just any birthday, either, but a specific one. _Michael's_ birthday, when he turned thirty, back before the bashing, when I could remember everything and my biggest concerns were getting through school and keeping Brian's attention. Brian did that whole pushing-Michael-away thing at the party he threw, here, at the loft. He wanted Michael to be with Dr. David, so he shocked everyone when he outed Michael in front of his co-worker. And it worked, it worked so well that Michael shut him out of his life. And _that's_ the way Brian looked for a long time afterwards. Whenever I saw him, he had an expression exactly like the one I'm seeing now, a kind of translucent mask of sorrow that allowed his pretend expressions of boredom and not giving a fuck to still show through. He'd been devastated because he thought he'd lost his best friend and he couldn't keep that from showing, at least not to me. Gripping the smooth surface of the linen napkin in my lap, my thoughts race in every direction. But, fuck, why is he devastated _now_?  
  
"Brian?"  
  
"Umm?"  
  
"You're upset about something, aren't you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Something's wrong. You're depressed and I don't know why. Is it something I don't remember?" Then I have another thought that hits me in the gut, hard. "Did we have some kind of a fight? Is that why you didn't know where I was those four days?"  
  
"Justin, you've got to stop dwelling on the part of your memory that—"  
  
"Brian?" Urgently, I reach out, take his hand, and squeeze until his strong fingers wrap around mine. "Tell me, _please_. Why're you so sad?"


	14. Fourteen

**Fourteen: Friday, December 26-mid-afternoon**

The Taylors showed up sometime after 1:00 on Friday afternoon, Christmas tree in hand. Literally. Apparently, Jennifer had decided Justin would be permanently scarred if he went through the Christmas season without being somewhere in the vicinity of a three-foot tall fake evergreen complete with twinkling lights and tasteful red ribbons. After some genteel holiday greetings and a plate of cookies for me, they'd settled down in the entertainment center, presents and tree piled on my new coffee table, and proceeded to have their little happy family Christmas. I take my cookies and stay discreetly on the other side of the room, huddled behind my computer. Believe me, I was grateful that I could avoid being a part of their little celebration. Any cheer not out of a bottle shrinks my dick.  
  
As I sit here, trying not to watch them, I am hoping Jennifer has briefed Justin's perky little sister, Molly, so she doesn't blurt out something that will cause problems. I have enough of those already. Blowing out air, I try to keep my mind on the current problem at hand—the _real_ problem compared to all the other smaller ones. I've connected the prototype docking station to my computer, which will also recharge it, and I'm about to set it in the cradle, half afraid of what I'll find.   
  
Absentmindedly, I pick up a star-shaped sugar cookie that'll probably leave butter on my fingertips and stick it in my mouth, chewing, surprised at the taste of almonds. Not bad even if it does mean ten more minutes on the treadmill. I can't afford to be my usual grumpy self about the cookies, though, can I? I have to keep Justin calm. So, cookies must be eaten, and happy, twinkling times endured. Wiping my fingers on a tissue, I refocus on the task at hand.  
  
The reason the Mystik's so revolutionary and will make Christian's company, Tectrus Tech, a shit-load of money is what it does with information. Every day, those of us in the business world—and, fuck, I'm sure it applies to many people who aren't—are overloaded with information. Not just on the computer, which is bad enough, but _conversations_. Whether it's in a formal meeting, someone encountered in the hall, or a casual exchange of ideas in the office, business people are always receiving new info, usually on the fly. And the only tool we have to help with all that shit is our poor overloaded brains. Okay, true, most of us employ some kind of method to keep track of that stuff. We take notes, use yellow sticky pads, have digital recorders on key chains, leave messages for ourselves on our answering machines, ask someone to remind us, or pulling out the PDA. And still, it's too much information and no easy way to track it.   
  
The Mystik monitors and records everything its user says. _Everything_. It knows your voice, and begins to record whenever you speak, whether you're saying good-bye to your wife, making a presentation to the stockholders, or giving directions to a cab driver. But it does more than just store its user's voice. It indexes everything in a way that makes it easy to search the database once you set it onto its docking station. And you can use keywords to help the process. The month I used it, I tried words like "follow up," and "appointment," and, yeah, even, "hot guy," to tag certain conversations.  
  
Christian's software engineers finally solved the problem of voice recognition capability because the Mystik has only to hear your voice once to know it forever. Nor is there any programming involved; once you speak to it, you're done. It understands whether you're saying "hear" or "here," and can even follow when your voice drops to a whisper. I had to remember to take it off before I went to Babylon although I'm sure Christian would've been very amused to catch my conversation with a trick … what little there was of it.  
  
I'm hoping that since it was removed from my safe, it's recorded the voice of whoever took it. It records _all_ of its user's conversations so I'm hoping it records other voices even if the user isn't around although I don't know enough about it technically to know that for sure and I sure as hell can't ask Christian. I'm still having trouble believing that "other" voice could be Justin, but whoever it was, I'm praying his voice was recorded and I'll have some answers. I don't know why that didn't occur to me until just a few hours ago, but I guess my mind's been elsewhere.  
  
"Oh, I love it!" I hear Justin exclaim, and look up, smiling, though I don't mean to, at the excitement I hear in his voice. He's still somewhat shaky so it's nice to see him enjoying his Christmas-that-almost-wasn't. He's holding a blue sweater to his chest while the girls oh-and-ah over it. Of course, it would be blue. Does anyone ever dress him in any other color? Anyone but me? I like him in red. Oh, and black—he looks hot in black.   
  
Fuck, why am I thinking about what colors he wears? There are more pressing issues than that. Justin has been here for just over twenty-four hours and already we're having difficulties. Like that question he asked me last night when we were eating. The one I managed to avoid answering. _Why are you so sad?_ Fuck, where'd that come from? He stared at me with his eyes all big and it felt like he was looking into my soul. Sad? Why should I be sad? He went away, but now he's back. Oh, and he was lost, but now he's found. End of story. No reason to be sad, is there?   
  
Except … maybe it isn't that straightforward. Maybe he went away, came back, and any day now, he'll regain his memory, and leave again. Maybe it won't make any difference whatsoever that I thought I was doing the right thing by lying to him. Maybe he'll queen out when he realizes the truth and this little moment in time will be nothing but a pleasant interlude between Ian and the next guy he fucks. And maybe, just maybe, I am a complete fool for inviting that kind of grief back into my life. Didn't I do that once? Fuck, I know I did. I took care of him and protected him and—fuck—loved him the best I knew how. And he left. He packed his shit and walked out. Just like people always do. Now, though, I might as well hang a sign on my fuckin' back: _do it again_. Although, shit, if that's what'll make him happy, isn't that what I want for him? Isn't that what I wanted before, when I had about a hundred chances to keep him with me, but didn't? So, this "sad" stuff is nothing but lesbionic bullshit, a little psychobabble to flavor the Christmas cheeriness. Right?  
  
Shit.  
  
And here's another question as well as another problem. Why am I being so nice about all of this? Maybe he _did_ take the Mystik. Even before I dock it and check the index, there are a number of factors that suggest that's true. He knew about it. He knew where the safe was. He knew the combination. He fuckin' had it in his possession when I found him. And just this morning, before Justin awoke, another piece of evidence entered the picture, a piece that gave me my current headache.  
  
Careful to make sure Justin is still occupied, I slide open my bottom desk drawer and look at the two-tone blue messenger bag lying there. One of Horvath's men found it in a trashcan on Liberty. There are mostly art supplies in it. No wallet. An Art History book with Justin's name on the inside flap. And the one thing that made me grit my teeth when I found it in the very bottom of the bag: a key to the loft. Not the one Justin had when he lived here because he'd given that one back to me. No, it was a duplicate—a fuckin' duplicate key to the loft.  
  
Didn't Michael say Justin was acting funny when he was in Red Cape? And that he'd asked if I was out of town? Shit, on circumstantial evidence alone, he's already convicted and sentenced, isn't he?  
  
But wait. Wait, wait, wait. Justin said he was being chased. Outside the loft, and at the airport. By some men in suits he called Mafia guys. Being chased by someone who's a Mafioso is nothing but a product of his overactive imagination, but could they have been corporate spies? Christian said the guys working for Brogla were not the nice white-collar types and had no problem playing rough. Shit! So, somehow they knew he had the prototype and were determined to get it? Fuck, that just makes all of this even more confusing. If he took it from the safe, he intended to give it to them, didn't he? Why else would he take it? They'd pay big bucks for that thing—I'm talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. So why were they chasing him? Did he have a change of heart? Did he decide he really couldn't sell me out like that, because, shit, let's face it, he'd know exactly what it'd do to me once it got back to Christian. Not only would VanGard cease being their ad agency of choice, not only would we lose potential millions when the campaign went live, but I'd more than likely lose my job … not to mention my reputation.  
  
Well, for right now, at least, Christian knows nothing. I told him the thing was still sitting in my safe, cozy and warm. Until I have more information, I'm not about to point the finger at anyone.  
  
Which takes me right back to what I'm doing. So, I'm going to dock the Mystik and then I'll know. But already I think maybe I do.  
  
Setting the device onto its cradle, I watch as the Mystik logo comes up, and the thing rapidly updates. Actually, a little too rapidly. It usually takes a minute or so, considering all the information stored that needs to be downloaded, but now … I scroll down through the updated information it's given me, and feel my shoulders slump. September 22nd? That's the date the last entry was made? Shit. That's _my_ data. That's the last time I used the fuckin' thing. It didn't record Justin's voice or anyone's. It fuckin' never recorded again after I put it in the safe that night back in September.  
  
"Brian?"  
  
I raise my eyes to see Justin standing on the other side of my desk, a shy smile on his face. "Yeah?" Pushing back from the desk, I remember we're all in a holiday mood, supposedly, and I need to be a little more positive. "What can I do for you, Sunshine?" I say in a softer voice.  
  
He's wearing that blue sweater, which is a dark periwinkle, and, yeah, he does look good in it. "Mom's got a present for you," he says, waving a hand back toward Jennifer and Molly.  
  
It's a testament to how well I have everybody trained that no one expects a present from me. Unless it's a hustler, of course, but I only spring for the really good gifts on birthdays. Trying to get into the right frame of mind, I stand up and come around to give him a hug. The kid loves to be hugged, although I'm already getting the idea he'd like a little bit more than just that. Why should that be a surprise? He's always been insatiable; that's one of the things I love about Justin. "Should I bring a corkscrew?" I ask him, glancing across the room to where his mother and sister wait.  
  
"No, just your glasses." He tugs on my waist. "Come on."  
  
The gift turns out to be a book, an autobiography by Marlon Brando called [**Brando: Songs My Mother Taught Me**](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679410139/qid=1152380804/sr=2-2/ref=pd_bbs_b_2_2/103-2694671-3659824?s=books&v=glance&n=283155). Now how in hell did Jennifer do that? It's not like she could pop into a bookstore on Christmas day and pick it up. "Thank you," I say, feeling a little awkward.  
  
"You're very welcome." Jennifer speaks in that country-club voice of hers, but when she and I make eye contact, her smile is sincere. In fact, when she offers to make coffee to go with the cookies and insists we listen to one of Justin's new CDs, she seems to be signaling that my position as non-conventional, non-defined son-in-law has been somehow reinstated. Why? Because she likes my new haircut? I'm not sure, but now isn't the time to question her motives. I sit down on one of the black leather chairs and Justin sits next to me, resting his hand on my thigh as he smiles up at me. I can smell the rich aroma of the coffee brewing in the kitchen and it suddenly occurs to me that whether I want to or not, I'm about to get a dose of family Christmas, Taylor style.  
  
I look down at Justin, rubbing a thumb across the bruise on his cheek, watching the way his eyes flutter and then close at my touch. And I realize something.  
  
No matter how I look at this whole thing.  
  
No matter what position I decide to take.  
  
I am so fucked.


	15. Fifteen

**Fifteen: Tuesday, December 30-mid-afternoon**

"Are you sure you don't want another piece of cake?"   
  
Carla shoots me a look that's all raised eyebrows and puckered lips. "Justin, sweetie, I sure do want another piece." She gives her head a vigorous shake. "Unfortunately, it don't want me!"  
  
I laugh with her, relieved that I've been a good host to my first official visitor to the loft since I came back. Debbie's chocolate-chocolate cake, Brian's best coffee, and it'd turned into a nice time. Having a few days to recover and a mountain of pills to take will do wonders for almost anyone, me included, even if I still can't remember the last fourteen months of my life. I don't mind admitting that the whole amnesia thing is making me a little crazy. Still, I'm making progress—that's what I have to remember. As I snag a dollop of icing and pop it into my mouth, I reflect on the fact that I can even taste that chocolaty goodness. Definitely an improvement, right?  
  
"I gotta start my shift in an hour, but before I go, tell me how things really are, baby," Carla says just then, shifting a little on the couch—which, of course, is a new one I'm not familiar with—coffee cup still in hand. "You and Brian doing okay?"  
  
I'm still amazed that Carla is here, but when Brian called her to gave her an update, she insisted on coming to visit, just to see for herself that I was all right, which was great. It's been a little lonely during the day with Brian at the office, even if this is a short work week what with New Year's Eve tomorrow. She's wearing her brown-and-creamy-white uniform, too, with the red-and-black badge on it. For the rest of my life, I'm going to associate that uniform with comfort, thanks to Carla. "We're … fine," I tell her as I set my cake plate aside. Okay, how honest do I want to be? Carla a new friend and even though I really like her, I'm not sure it's appropriate—  
  
"Now, listen to me, honey," she says immediately in that low, sexy voice of hers. "I may have only met Brian once, but I've seen his kind of man more times than you are old and I know what makes them tick."  
  
"At the moment, that's debatable."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"My age."  
  
She smiles, takes a final sip of coffee, and sets her half-empty cup back on the table. "He's a good man, Brian—you mark my word. But he's got some major 'issues.'" With curved fingers, her long, red fingernails flashing, she makes quote marks in the air. "And the main one? Well, honey, even a blind man could see that. He doesn't know how to love."  
  
Of course, this isn't news to me. I might be eighteen, I mean, nineteen and have only half a brain, but I figured Brian out right around the time he told me I was nothing but a fuck to him. Yeah, I did a lot of crying that night, but by the next day, my brain—which was whole and healthy and had never been bashed back then—was already cooking up ways to get over the steel wall topped with razor wire he'd built around his heart. There was even a time I thought I'd been pretty successful at breaching those fortifications. "He's acting weird," I tell Carla now, because Daph's in Paris and I really need to confide in someone. Yeah, she and I have been IM'ing, but it's not the same as talking to someone face-to-face.  
  
"Weird how?"  
  
Oh, boy. Why'd I say that? I'm pretty sure Carla knows what kind of relationship Brian and I have even though I haven't actually talked to her about it, but discussing sex with a stranger can still be a little iffy. "He's, uh, normally pretty, uh, demonstrative when—"  
  
"He likes sex and lots of it?" she says immediately, her cheeks plumping as she grins at me. "Me too. That's one reason Mr. Lytton and I have such a successful marriage."  
  
Carla's already told me she has six kids, so I'm seriously believing this. "Well, Mr. Kinney and I seem to … not be very successful in that area anymore."  
  
Carla laughs, but it's a sound filled with warmth. She leans forward to pat my cheek. "Honey, give him a moment to adjust to all of this, huh? To you it's just been a short amount of time, but he's lived through everything you've forgotten."  
  
"But that's the point. I think something happened, something he won't tell me, something that's making him … well, avoid me, if you know what I mean. I think maybe we had some kind of a fight."  
  
"Well, Brian strikes me as a man of few words, so maybe you have to bide your time. I'm sure he'll tell you when he's ready."  
  
"Yeah." Well, it was worth a shot, right? I didn't think she'd understand. I mean, who can, without knowing Brian the way I do? It's just not like him to abstain from fucking me for such a long time. Okay, it's only been four days, but when you're used to fucking three-to-five-times a day _every day_ , that's a long time. And, yes, I know I've been sick, and Brian's not the kind of guy to impose himself on someone … well, to impose himself on me. He's always been considerate like that probably because I started out inexperienced and he didn't want anyone to think he was bossing me around simply because he _could_. And even I have to admit I wasn't up for much of anything for the last few days. I felt really lousy and the pain pills were keeping me woozy. But, shit, what am I going to do? He's dealing with something heavy and I don't know what it is.  
  
"Honey, listen," Carla says right then. "You just need to have faith that it'll work itself out." She reaches over to take my hand, giving it a gentle pat. "He loves you, Justin. You know that? And that's hard for him, real hard." She taps my chest. "He's got a war going on in there, sweetie, a big, old ugly war between the way his people raised him, and the goodness and love he's found with you. Just give it time. This has been hard on him too."  
  
Nodding, I don't object when Carla gives me a tight hug and I'm enveloped in soft warmth. Who would've thought I'd make a friend by living in a bus terminal for two days? And I know she's right too, about Brian. I know the bashing was hard on him. Even back then when I was trying to deal with the nightmares and flashback episodes, I worried about him and how he was handling everything. Of course, he always tries to be so strong, but even strong people have reactions to stressful things, and when you don't know how to bend with the stress, you often break. I don't want Brian breaking. I want him to tell me what's wrong, to share it with me, to let me help. But I don't know everything that's happened with us. I'm missing vital information.  
  
That makes me think things aren't as rosy as I first thought they were.  
  
And that scares me to death.


	16. Sixteen

**Sixteen: Tuesday, December 30-mid-evening**

That night everything teetered precariously and it's a fuckin' wonder the whole house of cards didn't come tumbling down. We were just finishing dinner, listening to some oldies station on the radio as we did, smoking a little weed. I'd also had a few beers with the food, but, fuck, I wasn't _that_ buzzed. With some satisfaction, I'd been watching Justin inhale the cheese quesadillas, carne asada, and nachos I'd brought home while, at the same time, another part of me scornfully ridiculed my reaction. Shit, I might be a candidate for psychological counseling because more and more I'm behaving like one of those multiple personality types. I'm happy Justin's eating so much better because the kid is too thin. That worries me. Even at his normal weight, he's always skating the line, and when he returned from his little jaunt on the other side of the tracks, he'd definitely lost a few pounds too many. But I'm also cringing at the lesbian-like thoughts tracking through my brain. Shit, I'm Brian-fucking-Kinney, right? Do I spend my time thinking about the diets of underweight teenagers? No, I do not.   
  
Actually, just one teenager.  
  
Of course, I feel less and less like Brian-fucking-Kinney every day. Here's the thing: I've been living with a beautiful blond boy whose eyes are a shade of blue I can't even classify, whose smile causes power outages throughout the city, whose lithe and lovely body makes gay men weep, and what am I doing? What's the so-called stud of Liberty Avenue up to these days while this particular gorgeous blond traipses around his loft half-dressed? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I'm kissing him and hugging him and then tucking him in bed, Uncle Brian, the nice relative who'd secretly like to fuck him. But shit, that'd be wrong, wouldn't it?   
  
Okay, it's not that simple and I'm queening—I realize that. To say I'm frustrated would be a massive understatement. Frustrated and don't know what the fuck to do. Although, even that's not true because I know absolutely what to do, I've done it before like a million times, and I'm planning to do it, tonight, come what may. Justin is expecting it and when have I ever let him down? Well, too many times, but somehow right now we're in a kind of a time warp where he thinks I'm still a wonderful person … so "wonderful" me is going to fuck him into the mattress. Yeah, he'll hate me later. Yeah, he'll probably look me in the eye and tell me to fuck myself when he realizes what I've done. Yeah, that'll be the end … again. Yeah, maybe he did take the Mystik although, I really doubt that, and I don't give a shit what the "evidence" seems to suggest. Justin's a lot of things and some of them aren't good, but a thief? No, he's not. He has morals and he stands by them. He might've had reason to be uncomfortable around me during the Ethan era, but that doesn't mean he would've stabbed me in the back.  
  
So, we're cleaning up the containers from the living room table where we ate and I'm wondering what my next step should be to move the evening into Phase II when someone pounds on the loft door.   
  
Right away, Justin looks concerned, his gaze instantly on me. "Are you expecting someone?"  
  
"No. Here." I hand him the trash, and head for the door. I've been adamant to our family and friends that no one shows up unannounced for a visit. So, if it's one of them and the building isn't on fire, someone's in big trouble. I slide open the door.  
  
It's Ian.  
  
Glancing over my shoulder to see where Justin's standing—in the kitchen—I fix the asshole with a look, the muscles in my arms and shoulders going rigid. "What the hell do you want?" I ask him in a low voice, blocking the partially opened door with my body.  
  
He dips a hand in his pocket and comes up with a watch—Justin's watch. "It was mixed in with my stuff."  
  
"I'll bet." I take it, slip it into my pocket, and start to close the door.  
  
His hand comes out, grasping the metal edge. "Debbie told me what you're doing and I think it's wrong," he says, that little sneer of his in place.  
  
Thank you very much, Debbie Big-Mouth. "Fuck you."  
  
"You have no right to keep the truth from him."   
  
"Get your hand off the door unless you want to lose some fingers."  
  
He jerks his hand back, eyes wide.  
  
"Good choice, fiddler boy."  
  
"You're taking advantage of him because he doesn't remember what a shit you really are."  
  
"Yeah, and I suppose you just want to hold his hand and comfort him in his hour of need."  
  
"He never loved you! It's not right that you're doing this!" He tries to look around me. "Justin! It's me, Justin!"  
  
And then, as if this isn't already a fuckin' train wreck, Justin is coming toward us. "Brian, is everything all right?"   
  
"It's fine, Sunshine." I have an immediate choice: punch Ian in the nose or shut the door. I decide, reluctantly, on the latter, raising my hand to close the door. "It's just some asshole who—"  
  
"You can fuckin' go to hell!" Ethan snarls.  
  
Immediately, Justin is at my side, his arm around my waist. "Fuck off!" he says, a definite growl in his voice as he leans forward to glare at Ian. "I don't know who you are, but get the hell out of here!"  
  
The little pipsqueak looks shattered. "Justin, you don't know what you're saying. Trust me, Brian is nothing but a fucking asshole who wants to—"  
  
"You shut the fuck up!" Justin jerks as he says the words, his arm tightening around my waist as his voice rises. "You don't know _anything_ about Brian because if you did you'd know he's a warm, wonderful, generous man and if there's a fucking asshole here, it's obviously _you_!"  
  
"You can't mean—"  
  
"Good night and good-bye, motherfucker," I say quickly and slam the door with a resounding clang.  
  
"Who's he?" Justin asks, still hanging onto me like he might have to jump between us if Ian bursts through the metal door. "An old trick?"  
  
"Forget him." For a second, all I can do is stand there, one hand clutching the door, the other on Justin, my face turned away as I work to maintain my self-control. I'm breathing too hard and feel flushed like I might go up in flames at any second. Crazy questions race through my head. How can I kill Ian without ending up in jail? How can I explain him to Justin in a way that renders him harmless? How in hell did I end up in such a stupid, idiotic position? And those questions … _that's_ why I'm doing my personal rendition of a silly little faggot right now. The _only_ reason. It has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Justin, mere seconds ago, leapt to my defense, in a particularly breathless way, against motherfuckin' Ian the freakin' fiddler. Nor did that simple act somehow cause the reaction I am now—with every drop of my Irish blood— refusing to acknowledge, analyze, or otherwise assimilate into my crazed psyche. My knees don't feel strange, there isn't a tight knot in my gut, and there is most definitely _not_ a prickling sensation behind my eyes. No. Nothing is wrong because _nothing happened_.   
  
"Brian?"  
  
When I've got my face under control, and I've convinced myself this is not a lesbionic melt-down—which I don't do—I turn back to Justin. He looks pale. "Forget him," I say and put my arms on his shoulders, swaying a little to the slow tune playing on the radio. "He's a jerk who means nothing." I move us around so we're actually dancing, marveling at how easily he follows me. It's symbolic. We're moving away from this shit, from Ian, and all the feelings he's somehow managed to engender.   
  
Fuck him.   
  
Fuck the feelings.  
  
"Why was he yelling at you?" Justin has wrapped both arms around my waist and, head tilted back, is scrutinizing my face. "And how come I know him?"  
  
"You know a lot of people I know." I swing us around again, humming a little as I tuck him in under my chin, feeling calmer. Now if I can just get him off the whole Ethan thing. "He's nothing but a minor problem, one not worth rehashing." I turn us back toward the kitchen and realize I'm enjoying this little impromptu dance. He always was fun to dance with. Dance with, talk with, live with, fuck with. So, why in hell did I—?  
  
Fuck.   
  
Justin likes the dancing too. "This is nice," he murmurs into my chest.  
  
"And they say I'm not romantic," I pop out without thinking.  
  
He giggles, raising his head to stare at me. "No, you are, remember? You're _ridiculously romantic_."  
  
I stop, gaping at him.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"You said … what you just said."  
  
He comes up on his toes to kiss me. "Don't tell me you forgot? At the prom, in the parking garage? Just before—"  
  
I touch his lips to keep him from going on. "You remember … all of that?"  
  
"Sure." He gives me a look like he thinks I might be crazy. "After we danced in front of the whole school. Fuck, that was so great! I loved when you dipped me. And all those spins we did." The effulgent smile that gives him his nickname lights up his face. "We should do that again."  
  
Then, just like that, when I least expect it, my self-control deserts me. No, I fucking do not break down and start sobbing like some fey nelly bottom. Truth be told, I'm not sure _what_ I do, but something happens to my face, something shows there, something gives me away—I can see that immediately because Justin's expression changes. I lower my eyes, biting my lip, and fight to keep it together.  
  
"Brian, what's wrong?" Justin touches my cheek, stroking softly. "You okay?"  
  
A new song comes on the radio. A Beatles tune. "Come on, let's keep dancing," I manage to say despite the tightness in my throat—something, anything to get past this moment. God, he remembers the prom? Is this a fucking tradeoff of some kind? How much of this shit can I stand? I put the flat of my hand against his back and we move across the floor again, his silken hair tickling my nose as I breathe in the sweet scent of his shampoo.   
  
"Are you all right?"   
  
"Fabulous." The music sweeps around us, all softly strumming guitar and lush melody, but as I tune into what's playing, I realize there's no getting away from the feelings that are rolling over me with the force of an avalanche.

_But of all these friends and lovers  
There is no one who compares with you_

My eyes close and I grip him tighter, trying in vain to ignore the words, the music, the fuckin' sentiment of the song. Shit, do I love him? Of course I do! Was that ever a legitimate question? I love him and it fuckin' scares me like nothing else in my life. The worst moments with my drunken father, my sister and mother's scathing judgments, my confusion and doubts in college about my sexuality—none of it comes close to this feeling that both draws me near and sends me screaming in the other direction. It scared me so much that, the minute I realized people were treating us like a couple, I started pushing Justin away. I panicked, okay? I panicked because I didn't have a fuckin' clue how to handle the whole thing. Who teaches classes like that? No one. You either know that shit because you're the touchy-feely type, or you don't. And although I'm a fag and I'm supposed to be exactly that, I'm not … I'm just not. Or I won't be. Or I don't know how to be. Whatever. I wish I could be because I've got this beautiful boy willing to defend me against strangers and love me unconditionally and I can't fucking give him what he needs, what he deserves.

_Though I know I'll never lose affection_  
For people and things that went before  
I know I'll often stop and think about them  
In my life I love you more

With an internal thump of finality, I stop in the middle of the floor, unable to go on. I'm winded and shaky, like I've just climbed a very tall mountain. Solemnly, Justin watches me, his awareness of the emotions swirling around us evident in his eyes. Tugging one of my hands to his lips, he kisses each individual finger. "I love you, Brian," he whispers, his voice husky. "You know that, don't you?" He smiles, the question etched in his face. "Always have, always will."  
  
I gave him a little pull. "C'mere, Sunshine," I manage with what's left of my voice and begin to back up, taking him with me.   
  
Without any hesitation, I lead him toward the bedroom.


	17. Seventeen

**Seventeen: Tuesday, December 30-mid-evening**

In the bedroom, I stop next to the bed, Justin's hands still clasped in mine. Can I do this? Can I tell him how I truly feel? Right _now_? Not in words. No, that one's a foregone conclusion. I'm lousy with words and don't ever expect to be anything except incompetent when it comes to saying what Justin has always wanted to hear, those flowery, poetic words that roll off some people's tongues so effortlessly. But if I'm now going to make love to him (and, yes, I use that expression deliberately) and later be accused of taking advantage then I want to do it in a way that _shows_ him what I can't say, that at least gives him some of what he's always wanted from me. Not to save my ass. No. Because that's how I feel about him, and I don't know if I can express it, although … maybe I've done it in the past, or at least tried? Maybe that's what the prom was. When I made that last-minute decision and dressed in my finest, when I trekked over to that hotel and walked into a room filled with eighteen-year-olds, when I took him in my arms and danced with him like no one else in the entire universe was worthy of my attention—maybe that's exactly what I was doing. Talking to him in my own unique way. Saying those words to him without saying anything at all.  
  
Justin stirs and I realize the anticipation is probably killing him. Smiling, I give his hands a final squeeze, then slide mine slowly up his arms. Tipping up his chin, I brush back the hair from his forehead and scatter kisses along his hairline, intent on kissing every square inch of him before the evening is over. He molds himself to me, arms around my waist, an almost sub-vocal hum in his throat as I widen the area of kisses—the fading bruise under one eye, the faint trace of blue under the other, his cheekbones, nose, jaw line—marking every area with the warm imprint of my lips. I trap his face between my hands, thumbs gently massaging, and watch his pupils dilate as desire takes hold. My breath hitches and I smile with sheer delight at his breathtaking beauty. Then I kiss him, softly but with a gentle firmness, my tongue slipping inside his mouth as the kiss deepens. Justin trembles, drawing up his knee to rub his leg against mine until I feel his erection. His body tightens. His breathing accelerates.   
  
"Umm," he says a few minutes later when I pull back. He's hanging onto me with one hand around my waist while the other strokes me through my jeans, his face so infused with pleasure his cheeks are pink-tinged and his eyes sparkle. "I love kissing you," he whispers huskily like he's confiding some big secret, nuzzling my neck as he plants little kisses.  
  
"Me too, Sunshine." Our eyes meet and we smile at one another like we're _both_ sharing a secret and I think maybe I'm doing this the right way. "But it's time to get comfortable. Don't want you falling down."  
  
Justin's grip on me tightens. "I won't fall. Not as long as I have you to hold me."  
  
His absolute confidence is disturbingly familiar and makes me dwell on what happened that night in the parking garage after we left the prom. Fuckin' Chris Hobbs, the baseball bat, his fuckin'— shit, forget that. Somehow, _that_ has to become a part of the past, something I forgive myself for, although I fuckin' don't know how that's going to happen. God only knows, Justin forgave me. Well, he said there was nothing to forgive. But this— _the here and now_ —is the happy present where we live and remember only the good times. That's my focus now, right?   
  
"Of course you won't fall," I tell him, wiping the thoughts of the past from my mind. I slip my hands under his sweater. Slowly easing it up, I stop to kiss and tongue both his nipples until he's wiggling against me and making those little noises I've always loved. How could I have forgotten those noises? Something between a grunt and a groan—silly, charming, and a complete turn-on. Then I pull the sweater over his head and throw it aside. I unbutton and unzip his pants, pulling them down and letting my hand glide over his still-covered cock as I do.   
  
Justin moans, up on his toes, arms around my neck so he can ply me with kisses. "Take your clothes off," he breathes into my ear, his warm breath making me shiver. He tears at the buttons on my shirt with anxious fingers.  
  
"All in good time." I slide my hand under the waistband of his briefs, smiling again at his penchant for standard issue white. With a finger, I trace the elastic around to the back and cup his ass, a sigh leaving my lips as I grasp that plump and delicious bottom. Shit, it needs to be against the law. How can a twink like him have such a perfect ass and a big dick too? I've never understood that, but, fuck, I'll be forever grateful that he does. Then I pull the briefs down inch-by-inch. His beautiful, pink cock springs free, standing up straight and looking for attention. My smile gets wider. God, how I've missed this, missed him, missed his dick. The kid's gorgeous all over, inside and out. There's only one thing I want right now, and that's to please him, to make him feel loved and cherished and fucking worthy of the best anyone has to give.   
  
He finally manages to get my shirt unbuttoned and peels it away from my body with a faint whimper, pressing himself so close to me my breath catches in my throat. "I thought we'd never get to the fucking," he whispers as he runs his warm hands across my shoulders and down my chest. "I missed this so much." His hand snakes down and cups me through my jeans, his fingers doing a gentle massage.  
  
"My horny little boy." Even though he's fumbling with the zipper of my jeans, I have to kiss him again because he's like strong drink to me, better than any fuckin' Beam I've ever consumed. Working on those perfect lips, my mouth yielding to his tongue's urgent exploration, I realize he's loosened my jeans. Twisting a little and using one hand, I slide free and step out of them, instantly pulling us onto the bed with a resounding thump that makes Justin laugh. We roll together and I come out on top.   
  
Justin doesn't seem to mind. He looks up at me with an expression I'm afraid to identify, smoothing back my hair as if it's obscuring his view. "All I have to do is talk about the prom and this is what I get?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
His fingertips lightly graze my cheek. "Know what? I think you look just like you did that night."  
  
With exaggerated attention, I stare down at my body. "I don't exactly have on a tux."  
  
"No, I mean by the Jeep. We were looking at each other and you … your face changed." His expression softens as if he's demonstrating the change to me. "I saw the real you," he tells me softly. "The happy you."  
  
We stare at each other and I finally find the courage to speak. "I was happy." I run my hand through his hair, separating the silken strands although my eyes don't leave his face because I don't want to miss the look in his eyes. " _You_ make me happy."  
  
His answering smile—passionate and tender in equal measure—goes straight to my heart, and I'm not fighting it anymore. In fact, I fuckin' surrender. I want everything he has to give, want to give him everything I have right down to the last fuckin' thing I own. Is that love? Is that, "in my life, I love you more" like the fuckin' song says? I don't know. I guess it is, but right now, all I care about is Justin.   
  
After that, there's very little talking. I still have to kiss him all over, don't I? Wouldn't want to miss one square inch. By the time I'm licking and nipping the delicate skin on the inside of his thighs he's gasping and hanging onto the sheets like he's afraid he'll soar off into the atmosphere if he lets go. Still, I show no mercy, continuing down his legs, the downy blond hairs tickling my nose, until I've kissed every single toe. Only then do I give him a break and return to his aching cock, stroking it with gentle fingers as if to approve of its patience, murmuring things as I plant sweet little kisses along the underside, Justin moaning in frustration at the delicate sensations. Finally, with a chuckle at his hissed pleas, I show his dick a little focused attention, the kind Justin craves, until I've almost driven him over the edge.  
  
Then I stop.  
  
"Brian …" Justin says in a pitiful voice, holding out one hand as if in entreaty, and I have to chuckle again.  
  
"Coming right up, Sunshine." Grabbing the lube and a condom, I roll him onto his side, pushing up his knees, my hands caressing his thigh, his ass, the skin impossibly smooth and supple. Popping the lube's top and squeezing a little into my hand, I lean close to his ear. "Keep breathing," I remind him and then work to prepare him, trying not to wonder who last touched him so intimately like this. Fuck, whoever it was, he's gone and it's _me_ , I'm here, I'm the one he's chosen. Leaning over his shoulder, I press my mouth over his and kiss him, biting his swollen lips with gentle nips. "Remember how I promised you a night at the loft, after the prom ended?" I ask him when our lips part. "Complete with all the champagne you could drink?" Justin smiles, arching against me. "Well, I think that's what we're having tonight, minus the champagne."   
  
"You're better than any champagne." Justin strains over his shoulder to reach me, pulling my face close to ply me with wet kisses. He breaks away, breathing in gasps. "God, Brian … please!"  
  
Tonight, I want us as close as we can possibly be. I want the creamy softness of Justin's body against me in as many places as possible. I want to know when his breath hitches, when his muscles tighten, when he makes the tiniest sound. Instinctively, I know he needs to feel protected and enveloped and loved, and covering him with my body will do that, will let me touch him, will let me possess him in a way he loves. So, as he whispers my name repeatedly, I lay him on his stomach, tucking a pillow beneath his hips. Straddling his legs, I roll on the condom and position myself, overwhelmed by sensations that are fresh and new and wonderful; by the emotions churning through me, emotions that enhance the pleasure in ways I've never experienced except with him; by the sheer gratitude I feel being with him once again. Wild, crazy, confusing stuff, but I take it all, and make it mine, just as I make him mine.  
  
With a gentle thrust, I push into the welcoming warm of his body, kissing his shoulder, his neck, our fingers entwining as I begin a slow, sensuous rhythm that he immediately follows.   
  
And then—with every fiber of my being, in a way I've never done before—I am making glorious, passionate love to Justin, and nothing else in the whole fuckin' world matters ... except him.  
  
Only him.

*******

Brian says it's time to sleep. Two hours and three condoms later, he looks like he could go on all night, but he's worried about me. "I'm fine," I tell him again, plastered to his body, literally, thanks to the sweat and spunk, so fuckin' happy right now I don't care if I ever get my memory back. "It's not even midnight."   
  
Brian stares at me like he's been doing all night, his eyes luminous, that faint smile on his lips. "Maybe I'm tired."  
  
This image of him is being burned into my brain. Like I said before, it's not totally new. I saw it that night in the parking garage, and I saw it again when we made love after Gus's birthday party. But now, suddenly out of nowhere, here it is again, and I'm not sure why. It has something to do with that guy who came to the door. Ian. I think that was his name. And me talking about the prom. I keep trying to remember if I always knew what I'm telling him or if it just came to me, but it isn't clear. Yeah, I remember all the reenactment stuff we did, but after that, after the birthday party freak out, then I knew it all, right? Yet, Brian's reaction tells me otherwise. "I know you're not tired," I tell him now, but have to stop and give him another long kiss. Fuck, he's so beautiful! The gentle sweetness that emanates from him is doing crazy things to me, screwing up my brain even more.  
  
After a long, delicious moment of this, Brian breaks the kiss, touching my lips with a finger. He reaches a hand behind him and retrieves a bottle of water. "Drink," he says in that mock-serious voice designed to make me obey.   
  
And it does. I take a couple of gulps and pass it back. "I'm not sleepy," I tell him because it's true. I'm much too excited. Turning on my side, I prop my head with my hand, elbow on the bed, and study Brian, thinking about the prom and all we've said. "So, during those fourteen months I don't remember, did we come to some, I don't know, resolution about the bashing?" Oh, shit. Wait. Why am I asking him that? Okay, prom equals bashing? Sure, but it must be that impulse control thing again because—  
  
Brian stiffens, and for a minute all I can do is curse my stupidity, but then he seems to make a conscious effort to relax. "No, actually, we never talked about it."  
  
Yeah, that seems familiar. Not that I'm remembering those months, but immediately after I came to live with him, I realized talking about the bashing caused him pain. So, other than the reenactment stuff and my freak out, we stopped. In fact, I don't think we ever mentioned it again. I might've tried, but the look in his eyes … that stopped me. Now, though, I think maybe that wasn't a smart decision. For one thing, it left Brian without a way to express his feelings. Not that he'd ever admit he _had_ feelings. But he does and tonight proved that. I mean, he's looking so different right now: happy, relaxed, smiling. Something got worked out and, suddenly, we're moving forward. I can feel it. "I think that wasn't such a good idea," I tell him now, not sure how far into this I should venture right now when we're so cozy and relaxed. But maybe, since I popped off like that, I'll go a little further.  
  
"Yeah?" He moves toward the table again, and drinks some of his own water. "How come?"  
  
I am impressed. Brian is willing to talk about why we should talk about something? That's huge for Brian who is the most shut down person I know and considers stuff like that something only lesbians do. "Because it's an experience we share, an important one. And I'm really the only person you can share it with because it was just you and I there that night."  
  
He pulls back to stare at me again and it's like he's devouring me with his eyes—yeah, I've heard that expression, but didn't know it could actually be true. Just the tip of his tongue pokes through his mouth as his gaze slips over me, his eyes a golden brown color that's fucking with my head even more. God, I love him—I love every part of him, physical, emotional, spiritual, mental … and, shit, yes, his _inside_ is just as beautiful as his outside. I love all of him in a way that hurts sometimes, it's so strong, so intense—like now, especially after all that we've done, all that he's said to me without using words.   
  
Just then he kisses the tip of my chin. "You're right. That makes perfect sense. But what would we say that hasn't already been said?"  
  
I fix him with a look. "You'd tell me that you don't blame yourself anymore."  
  
His face has lost a lot of its normal guardedness, and the look he gives me is soft, vulnerable. "Let's not talk about that now," he says, but it's a suggestion, not a command.  
  
He's right. It didn't make any sense to veer off into such a painful subject. Maybe later. "Okay. But can I ask you to think about something for when we do talk?"  
  
As his fingertips lightly caress my scalp, shivers like miniature lighting bolts travel up and down my spine. "Sure," he says with one of those knowing smiles because, despite what he said a few minutes ago, he's getting ready to take us down that same delightful path once again. Not that I'm complaining.   
  
"You feeling guilty about that shit makes me unhappy." As he traces patterns down my face, across my cheek, along my neck, I roll my shoulders, fresh shivers assailing me. "You don't want that, do you?"  
  
"No, of course not." Brian leans in to capture my lips, pushing me over onto my back.  
  
He's half on top, the weight of his body pressing me pleasantly into the bed. All the Brian-scents come to me: sweat, aftershave, cigarettes, the light citrus fragrance of his mousse, the jizz smell of both him and me. Looking down at me, he gives me a smile filled with gentleness, one that melts my heart all over again. "I'll think about it, okay?" The next instant his mouth covers mine, his tongue slipping inside seconds later so that I capture it, sucking with greedy desire. An upsurge of intense pleasure ripples through me and I arch against him, digging my heels into the mattress. _Sounds great_ I say to him in my mind, but already I'm gone, lost in a desire that never grows old, that only gets better, that means love to me.  
  
_Brian's_ love.


	18. Eighteen

**Eighteen: Thursday, January 1-mid-afternoon**

New Year's Day is bright and sunny, but cold. The snow finally stopped, the sidewalks were cleared, and I persuaded Justin to take a walk with me. He hasn't been out of the loft since he came back from the ER on Christmas Day. Not that it's been a hardship on me. Shit, no. The last forty-eight hours have been pretty much nonstop fucking although … there I go again. It's not really fucking. The word just doesn't fit anymore and if you think I'm behaving more and more like a dyke, well, yes and no. Yes because it's just not like me to be so sentimental about anything. I like directness and if you're a man and you're sticking your dick into someone else, no matter if it's a male or a female, that's fucking, right? Yet, the concept of lovemaking has been something I've been able to get my head around in the last two days, which is a first. Okay, maybe back when Justin and I started having sex again after the bashing. That night … you'd have to call that lovemaking too. But after that, after he began to feel better, we quickly began to play the game, and Justin turned into quite the club boy. Not that he wasn't hot back then, because he was. But now, so much has changed and I'm having a hard time figuring out everything. He's different, I'm different, but I think the difference is good.  
  
Justin looks up at me, those little vertical lines between his eyes he gets when he's worried firmly in place. Underneath the black pea coat, he's wearing a red turtleneck sweater that makes his cheeks pinker, his eyes even bluer. "So, you don't think those guys will try to get me because I don't have the Mystik anymore?" he says for about the third time, his arm firmly around my waist as we walk.  
  
Telling him the whole story about the prototype seemed like the logical next step, especially since it was the only way I could get him to leave the loft. "They'd have no reason to want you," I tell him now, making sure my arm is keeping him close. "They're not stupid so they've got to realize it's back in my possession." The longer this thing goes on, the harder it is to hide everything and it's possible if he understands the whole tale, he might remember something or have some insight into the problem. Plus, it's only fair. After all, he's looking like suspect number one in the "heist," so shouldn't he know what he's accused of doing? Not that anyone's accusing him, certainly not me. But one way or another we have to figure this thing out because it's part of the mystery. How'd he hurt his head? What part does Michael play? And how did the Mystik end up in his pocket?   
  
"I can't believe I was carrying around something that expensive and didn't even know it."  
  
"Yeah, well at least you had a cell phone and were able to make some calls."  
  
Justin looks over at me, frowning. "But after awhile I couldn't because it needed to be recharged so how did it keep the voice data? Maybe that's what happened to the other conversations—the recording part gave out."  
  
"No, whatever is recorded is permanently stored, just like it would be on a hard drive. And it's got redundant energy sources: a primary and a backup." Leaning over, I kiss him on the forehead, lips brushing the silken skin there. I'm doing a lot of that lately. "When the primary gives out, it shuts down the cell phone part of the Mystik so the device can continue to record. That's really its main function. But, like I told you, the only voice recorded on it is mine, when I used it back in September. It didn't record any other voices although I have to believe the person who took it did _some_ talking around it." Shaking my head, I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. I wish I could call Christian and ask him, but, fuck, I can't do that without telling him the truth.  
  
We stop at a street corner, and look for cars. "I just wish I could remember what happened." Justin's finally starting to sound more like himself now that the bronchitis is gone. I'm relieved that he's got his normal voice back, that deep honey-tenor I love, although right now he sounds frustrated. "I feel terrible," he says, chewing on his lower lip. "It looks like I'm the one that took it."  
  
"Not necessarily. That's what we've got to figure out." We walk across the street, and I realize we're only about two blocks from the diner. Is he up to that? Even more importantly, am I? "So, the first thing you remember is being in that alley, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Near Maddock? Where the Rio Grande Restaurant is?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"That's the same block Red Cape's on."  
  
Justin nods. "Yeah, I know. But I don't want to jump to conclusions, Brian. I mean, why would Michael be involved in anything like that? He'd never do something that'd hurt you."  
  
"Neither would you." I'm going to be having another conversation with Michael soon—a detailed conversation. No matter how hard I try, I can't get the image out of my head of Justin walking down an alley and onto Liberty Avenue. There's an alley behind Michael's fuckin' comic book store and, in the back of the store, a door that leads to that alley. How can that be a coincidence?   
  
Justin shoves his hand deeper into the pocket of his coat. "I just wish I knew what was going on. It makes me crazy."  
  
I tilt my head a little and gave him my best cheeky grin. "I like you crazy."  
  
He grins back, that major wattage smile flashing. "I like you crazy too."  
  
Then we come to a halt, staring at one another the way we've been doing for the last two days, an unspoken message passing between us that causes a strange tingling in my stomach … among other places. A second later, holding his chin between thumb and forefinger, I give him a long, lingering kiss that makes my toes curl. Shit, more and more I'm drunk on the strong drink Justin supplies merely by his presence. What the hell is happening to me? Justin is leaning against me, his arms wrapped around me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I fuckin' don't care. Kissing him again, my tongue pushes into his mouth as I press my knee between his legs. My hand slips under his coat and sweater 'til it slides against his soft skin. We may need to return to the loft _right now_.  
  
"Hey, Kinney, how's it going?"  
  
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Rory, one of the bartenders at Babylon. Nice guy. Well built, handsome, the typical hunk Sapperstein likes to hire as eye candy. "Hey."  
  
Justin smiles at him, probably remembering how Rory wouldn't give him a beer that one night when he was upset about his parents' divorce. "Hey."  
  
Rory nods, his eyes going from me to Justin and back as a big smile lights up his face. "I didn't know the two of you got—"  
  
"—out so often?" I manage to say in a loud voice, cutting him off just a hairbreadth from the truth. Shit! "Yeah, it's great the weather finally cleared up so we thought we'd take a stroll. Good to see you, man." I give him a hearty pat on the shoulder, dragging Justin with me as we head in the opposite direction.   
  
"I don't think that's what he was gonna say," Justin comments as he takes my hand.   
  
"Who knows?" I murmur. Shit, shit, shit. I should've known someone would do that. How am I going to keep that from happening? Lots of people know Justin; lots know me. Our "break-up" was delicious news among the gossip queens. They'll be buzzing like crazy, and snarking all over the place the minute they catch us together. "Let's head back," I say, making an instant decision. Can't risk anything, not now, not when things are going so well. Justin will crash if one of those nelly bottoms gets her yapping lips within range of him and blurts out the truth.  
  
"We're not going to have lunch at the diner?"  
  
"Not today. I can do without the indigestion."  
  
"Was I working at the diner?" Justin says unexpectedly as we cut across the street and head back the way we came.  
  
"Uh, yeah, you were, up until you disappeared."

"I hope Debbie was able to cover my shifts when I—"  
  
Just then, from somewhere behind us, we hear the screech. "You two! Stop! Now!"  
  
Looking at Justin, I see his grin. "You had to say her name," I mutter as we turn and spot Debbie trudging toward us. Shit. I hope like hell she remembers what she can and cannot say. Debbie isn't exactly known for her discretion.   
  
Justin's hand tightens in mine and it occurs to me that, except for Michael, he hasn't seen any of our little family since this whole thing began.  
  
Debbie has on a heavy blue coat, but her nutty collection of buttons and pins can be seen peeking out between the zippered opening. "Just the people I wanted to see," she says as she stops in front of us. Her smile widens as she looks at Justin. "Sunshine." She leans closer to give him a hug, kissing his cheek when he lets go of my hand and hugs her back. She glares at me, but it's the friendly kind I'm used to. "You two. The family dinner. On the sixteenth." It's said in that no-nonsense way she has that no one dares to rebel against.   
  
Except me. "Deb, I don't think we can—"  
  
She fixes me with a look that's meant to shut me up. "Yes, you can. It'll be good for both of you."  
  
She's trying to tell me it'll be all right, but I'm seriously doubting that. I mean, Michael will be there, won't he? And I'm not subjecting Justin to another of those freefall attacks. "I don't know, Debbie, we might have other plans."  
  
"No, we should do it," Justin says suddenly. He takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "That's okay, Brian. It'll be fine."  
  
"That's the spirit, Sunshine." Debbie cracks her gum, patting Justin's cheek. "I'm making lasagna with the big meatballs, just the way you like it."  
  
Justin gives her a wicked smile. "You're right, Deb. I love big balls."  
  
Debbie throws back her head, chortling. "I know you do, hon!" She waggles her eyebrows. "And you've _got_ them too." She points an imperious finger at me. "Seven. And don't be late."  
  
"Yes, mother," I whisper in a high-pitched voice, making a face as she turns and heads back toward the diner. Laughing, I bring Justin's hand to my lips and kiss it. "What made you decide to do that? Michael will probably be there."  
  
"I know. I just think we have to get this figured out somehow. I hate not knowing what's going on."  
  
"But what if you have another reaction like when you thought you were falling and—"  
  
Justin takes a deep breath then comes up on his toes to peck me on the lips. "Then you'll just have to catch me again." He grabs my hand. "Come on. Let's go home. Someone needs a blowjob."  
  
Surprisingly, I follow him without saying another word.


	19. Nineteen

**Nineteen: Friday, January 16–early evening**

When Brian and I come into Debbie's house for dinner that night, the air fragrant with the promising aroma of garlic, oregano, and tomatoes, all conversation stops. _Shit_ , I think as I ease out of my coat and hang it on the coat rack, _is this what it's gonna be like?_  
  
They're all here. Mel, Linds, and Gus have commandeered the couch. Lindsay holds Gus, who looks like a little kid instead of a baby. Fourteen months of lost time. Right. That's a lot for a baby. She and Mel twist around to look at me, staring with huge, round eyes and fake smiles, the kind of looks you'd give a stranger you're not quite sure you like. Emmett and Ted are sharing the recliner that's perpendicular to the couch at the living room's end, and they look … wow, they look cozy. What the hell is that all about? Vic is across from Mel and Linds in a chair opposite the couch, and, fork poised over his plate, smiles gently at me. Debbie stands in the entrance to the kitchen holding another plate of lasagna, gum smacking as her eyes roam from person to person like she's daring them to ruin her dinner. Then I see Michael. He's standing in the kitchen and he's frowning. There's another man with him—tall, really built, good-looking. His gaze meets mine and he smiles, a genuine smile I immediately like.  
  
"That's Ben," Brian whispers at my ear. He's standing behind me, hands on my shoulders, and I know he's concerned about this whole thing. To be honest, I am too, but it's been almost a month since I hit my head and my memory still hasn't returned. I want so much to make some progress and put this thing behind me, so I'm sucking it up and trying to make this work. Maybe I'll do better, even with Michael, now that I'm no longer sick? Being so frightened of him is stupid and irrational, and I hate that.  
  
"Come on, Sunshine, we've just started to eat." Debbie saunters toward us, the plate of lasagna in hand. She motions with her head to the chair that's next to the recliner.   
  
Brian wants me to sit on the chair, but I grab one of Deb's big pillows and kneel on it. Lifting an eyebrow, Brian sits down. "Age before beauty," I whisper when he dips his head to hear me.  
  
He smirks. "I'll get you for that," he says, warm breath washing across my face. "Later." We grin at each other, caught for a moment in this crazy Brian-Justin thing we've been doing the last two weeks.  
  
That, of course, has the desired effect. God, I love him and I'm so fuckin' easy! Anything he says like that gets me excited and, in this case, diverted from the nervousness I feel. "Oh, thanks, Deb," I say when she hands me the plate.  
  
She nods, frowning at Brian like she's making an assessment then tapping him on the cheek. "Beer?"  
  
Brian looks down at me again. "Two?"  
  
I nod.  
  
"So …" Brian says, breaking the intense silence in the room, "are you all that stunned by my incredible beauty?"  
  
That gets a chuckle from Ted and a high-pitched giggle from Em, and they both begin to talk at once. Soon they're in the middle of a story about some drag queen who came into Babylon a few nights ago. She was about six-three, wearing a sequined, shocking pink outfit that could be seen from every corner of the dance floor, and had an attitude to match. As Emmett comes to his feet, a little unsteadily, and begins to demonstrate how she walked, I laugh and eat some lasagna, including those meatballs Deb makes that are so good, and drink some of my Dos Equis. I even manage to _not_ think about Michael for a while. Brian touches my shoulder every now and then, when he's not eating, or I touch his knee. Nowadays, that's standard fare for us. Watching Emmett and Ted, I know something's happened with them. Have they become lovers? It seems like a very strange idea, but, shit, is it any stranger than Michael having this Ben as his partner? I mean, I'm not blind. Ben is gorgeous and seems like one of those strong, silent types. And he's _Michael's_ lover? Well, maybe that cured him of wanting Brian, which would be a good thing for me.  
  
"And _then_ …" Emmett says, his lime green vest and pink polka dot shirt making him look like the emcee of a quiz show as he describes how this drag queen stripped in the middle of the dance floor. "Then she ripped off her top and, oh, my, God, she had …" He nods around to all of us, his cheeks very flushed, cupping his hands on his chest. "A full set. Very perky and not the least bit saggy."  
  
"She was a transsexual," Ted says helpfully, like the rest of us don't get that.  
  
Laughing, I take another sip of beer and look up to find Brian staring down at me. Stroking his thigh, I'm about to give him a tiny smile that tells him, I hope, that I'm having a good time, but suddenly everyone's laughing and I look back at Emmett to see why.  
  
"I kid you not!" Emmett is saying as he dances around as only he can. "She's as naked as the day she came into this world with a cock the size of New York City, and two tits to match, and she's swinging her dress over her head as she tries to avoid the security staff!"   
  
We laugh, clapping at the picture he paints.  
  
"Everyone was cheering her on," Emmett concludes, his voice a little slurred so that I'm sure he's had one too many wine spritzers. Fanning himself, he looks over all of us with a gleam in his eye. "I'm telling you, it was the most outrageous thing I've seen in Babylon since the night of the Rage party!"  
  
In an instant, the whole room is freeze-framed.  
  
Craning my neck, I see shocked expressions all around. I glance at Brian, but he's wearing that impassive face he puts on when he doesn't want his feelings to show. "What's the Rage party?" I ask immediately.  
  
No one wants to make eye contact with me or answer the question. What the fuck? It's something I've forgotten, that seems obvious, something not so great. Why doesn't someone tell me? But, shit, I know why already. I'm being protected. The shock of knowing something might, I don't know, blow up my brain? I can't work. I can't go back to school—and, yeah, apparently I reapplied to PIFA after I dropped out and _did_ get back in. And I'm almost never out of Brian's sight although, well, it's kind of nice that he works from home some days just to keep me company. Still …  
  
"What's the Rage party?" I ask again, louder.  
  
Brian's hand closes over mine on his knee. "Nothing. Don't worry. It was nothing."  
  
"But it was a party at Babylon and I was there, right?"  
  
Brian sets his plate of food onto the table next to him and then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, you were there."  
  
"And something happened right? Something—" But at that moment, the light shifts, or something and I really see Brian's face. He looks ill. Pale and strained, his eyes are dark and filled with a pain he's trying to hide. Shit. He's sad again, like he was before. This stuff is making me crazy because I have no idea what happened. First, some guy named Ian cheers him up and now a "Rage party" depresses him? I don't have a clue what that is, but all of a sudden I just want to shut the fuck up. He spends all his time taking care of me and trying to protect me. I sure as hell can return a little of that, can't I? "Uh …" I look across to where Linds and Mel are sitting like two statutes, and manage a bright smile. "Wow, I can't believe how much Gus has grown. He looks so different, such a big boy!"  
  
After that, things return to normal. Ted goes with Emmett to get some fresh air so I take a chance and ask about them. That question, unlike the last one, makes the conversation explode and soon I'm getting a detailed description of the love affair those two are having. Then I hear the story of a dead hustler Debbie found in the dumpster behind the Liberty Diner. When that subject comes up, Debbie spends some time ranting about someone named Stockwell—he's the chief of police, I guess. Brian, I notice, stays very quiet when they talk about him and Debbie glares at him a few times. Not sure what that's all about.  
  
Then things lighten up and they tell me about Mel and Lindsay's _wedding_. I can't believe I forgot their wedding! I discover that I turned down an invitation to the White Party with _Brian_ so I could attend. Debbie says it was the right thing to do, but somehow I keep thinking how awesome it would've been to go somewhere with Brian. We've never been anywhere together … at least I don't think we have. Everyone keeps trying to describe the ceremony and the reception that followed. Finally, Debbie remembers some pictures she took so she drags out an album and shows me how beautiful Mel and Linds looked that day.  
  
Debbie leaves me to go clear the plates and make coffee. I'm still looking at the album while Brian is involved in a conversation with Ben about Carnegie Mellon. I'm just starting to get bored with what I'm doing when I see a bunch of pictures in the back, just stuck there. Pulling them out, I take a look. One of them is me … me with that guy who came to our door a few weeks ago. Ian. We're smiling and have our arms around one another. When I turn the picture over, I read: "Justin with Ethan Gold." Ethan? That's his name? Why'd Brian call him Ian? And he's _my_ friend, isn't he? Otherwise, why do we look so chummy? Wasn't he calling my name that night? I think I remember that. Shit! What does this all mean? Who the hell is this guy and why'd he upset Brian so much when he showed up at the loft?  
  
Coming to my feet, I go to where Brian is standing, snaking a hand into the pocket of his jacket to get his cigarettes and lighter. He looks down at me, puts an arm around my waist, and gives me a brief kiss, which I return with a little tongue action, grinning at him. I go through the kitchen, the smell of dark roast coffee beginning to fill the air, and step outside.  
  
Walking around the yard, my breath is frosty in the cold night air as I survey the piles of snow glinting in the moonlight. I do my best not to freak out. Okay, I've known all along that I was missing a lot of information and that there might be pieces to the puzzle that Brian didn't want to tell me. Is Ethan Gold one of those pieces? I keep remembering how sad Brian was right after I came back from the ER. My first thought was we'd had a fight and _because_ of that fight I was missing four days before he knew I was gone. Maybe I'm right. And maybe when Ethan Gold came to the loft, he wanted to talk to _me_ because he had something to do with the whole thing. He can't just be a trick because Brian would've never been upset because of me and some trick. There has to be more to it than that.  
  
Where's Carla when I need her? As I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply, I know she'd scold me for smoking _and_ for freaking out when I ought to be sticking with the facts at hand. That's what she likes to say: Don't let your imagination carry you into La-La Land. It's weird how she's turning into such a great friend. I mean, she brought food—a baked ham, scalloped potatoes, green bean casserole, and even an apple pie—to Brian and me last week and stayed for a couple of hours. One of the things I love about her is that Brian doesn't intimidate her in the least. She'd know what to say to him about this whole Ethan Gold thing. I need to call her, but it isn't going to happen tonight. I have to keep it together, for Brian's sake as well as my own sanity. Besides, I don't really know anything.  
  
I've just finished the cigarette, my back is to the house, and I'm staring at the full moon, a butterscotch-colored spotlight in the sky, when I hear the door creak open. Brian. I figured he'd follow me. Stubbing out the cigarette against the fence I wait for him to join me, trying to keep my expression as pleasant as possible. The last thing I want to do is upset him. He's been so wonderful to me and I'm not going to queen out on him when the only "evidence" I have is some photo of me with some not-very-good-looking guy. Then I realize I didn't hear footsteps or anything else. I turn.  
  
Michael is standing there, a few feet away, staring at me.   
  
I inhale sharply, but this time I don't feel like I stepped off the side of a building. "Hi," I manage to say, wondering why he's followed me out here.  
  
"Hi." He doesn't move, his face in half-shadows. "I thought maybe you and I should talk."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because this whole business is just fuckin' crazy." His voice gets a little more forceful. "And it's hurting Brian."  
  
Taking a step back, I realize I'm against the fence. "And you think that's my fault?"  
  
"You know, I get that you hit your head and forgot some things, but why am I getting blamed just because I was the last person to see you before—"  
  
Right at that moment, it happens. It's as if someone slots a piece of my memory back into place because there I am, transported back to Liberty Avenue, except it's _before_ I went racing down the street like I was being chased by the devil. In the memory, I'm almost at Red Cape when I see someone exiting Michael's store. A middle-aged man, kind of seedy looking, whose eyes shift right-to-left like he hopes no one sees him. And here's the weird part. I am right there, in my head as it happens, no longer Justin-in-the-backyard listening to Michael, and I fuckin' _know_ this guy. I'm thinking, _Oh, shit, the Sap!_ and that's when I duck into the alley and decide to go in the rear entrance to Red Cape, hoping to avoid him. For some reason, I don't like this guy at all. And I know the store has a rear entrance, which is news to Justin-in-the-backyard who thinks he's only been in the fuckin' place one time.  
  
Dizzy in the here and now, I sway a bit and, for a moment, I'm seeing Michael with crystal clarity as he keeps up his little pep talk in front of me, his face scrunched up with that earnest expression he wears when he's lecturing.  
  
"—and it'd be really great if we could somehow get beyond this place and come to some understanding—"   
  
Then I'm once again thrown back into the memories. Now I'm in the backroom at Red Cape. My hand clutches the strap of the messenger bag that's slung over my shoulder as I listen to a conversation in the store's front room. It's Michael, but he's not alone and these aren't customers he's talking to. I am barely breathing as I listen.  
  
_All right, I did what you asked, but this whole thing stinks_. Michael sounds tense and very unhappy.  
  
_You made a great decision, Michael_. The man who answers him has a deep, no-nonsense voice. He sounds calm, assured, like he's used to having his orders obeyed. _We benefit, you benefit, no one gets hurt_.  
  
_If anyone connects Brian to this, he sure as hell will get hurt, not to mention what it'll do to me!_  
  
Then a new voice. _Thanks to you, the device will be tucked away in his safe by the time he returns from Philadelphia. Stop being such a fuckin' wuss. Here, give me the Mystik and we'll get out of here_.  
  
I'd know that voice anywhere. It's _Shark Eyes_ , the man who tried to grab me outside the loft that day, one of the two men who was chasing me.  
  
It's _Shark Eyes_ and here he is, in my memory, in Michael's store.  
  
And he's talking to Michael about the Mystik.

***

Ben just had to go on and on about the alumni program at Carnegie Mellon. Like I care. Like I spend my days trying to adjust my schedule so I won't miss a fuckin' seminar on "High-Tech Business Opportunities in the Twenty-First Century."  
  
Hurrying out Debbie's back door, my worst fear is confirmed. Michael is standing in front of Justin, who's huddled against the fence like a trapped animal. Shit! What the fuck is Mikey's problem? He doesn't seem to understand even the simplest concepts these days like, _Stay away from Justin_. "Hey." I give Michael one quick look as I walk by, but my focus is on Justin who's looking decidedly pale. "Sunshine?"  
  
It takes him a second to focus on me. "Umm?" His eyes are all pupils, large and dark in the light from a nearby streetlamp, but when he finally registers my presence, his face changes. "Brian? I-I just … I'm sorry, I was talking … Michael was saying something and I …" He blinks, faltering, arms going around me as I take him into an embrace.  
  
Shit, something's happened, I can feel it in the way he's clutching me. "Just what the fuck were you doing, Michael?"  
  
"Oh, blame me! It's always me, isn't it?" Michael says, looking pissy and unhappy.   
  
"I expect you to understand what I tell you, Mikey. Is that too much to ask?"  
  
"I just wanted to see if Justin and I could—"  
  
"And that's the point," I say, shooting a glare his way, "you know he's got a problem with you and you need to keep your distance."  
  
"It's okay, Brian," Justin says, pulling back a little, but it's obvious that it's _not_ okay because he's looking at Michael like he's seen the antichrist. "Could we go home, please? Now?" His voice shakes as he makes the request.  
  
"If that's what you want," I say as I search his face. Fuck, he looks disturbed as hell. "Come on, let's get our coats. You must be fuckin' freezing out here."  
  
"You see? That's just what I mean." Michael throws his hands in the air in full drama queen mode. "Nothing's ever going to be the same if you continue to indulge him this way, Brian! Open your eyes. This is just a—"  
  
Arm around Justin's shoulders, I pull him with me, brushing past Michael as we go. "'Night, Mikey."   
  
A few minutes later, we've made our escape and are on the way back to the loft. Justin is silent in the car, eyes downcast, looking more like his old, sick self than the vibrant kid I've been seeing lately. I want to question him about what happened, but I keep my peace knowing he'll tell me when he's ready.   
  
It comes sooner than I expect.  
  
"Brian?" he says as we walk through the loft door.  
  
Turning in his direction, I take one look at his face, and know I was right. "Let's sit." I peel off my coat, wait 'til he does the same, and then grab some water from the refrigerator. We park ourselves on the couch and then I listen as he tells me, very hesitantly, about the memories he believes he's recovered. When he recounts who he thinks he saw coming out of Red Cape and what he heard in the back of Michael's comic book store, I stay very still, not reacting in a way that'll frighten him because he already looks so troubled. "So, you didn't tell Michael any of this?" I ask him when he finishes, handing him the water and taking a huge hit on mine as well.  
  
He shakes his head.   
  
Fuck! It sounds like Michael had something to do with this whole thing, but, if he took the Mystik like Justin's memory suggests, how in hell did he get into my safe? And what was the Sap doing coming out of his store? That doesn't bode well at all. The man is a certifiable creep no matter how you look at it. To find him mixed up with sleazy corporate spies doesn't surprise me at all. But Michael? Shit.  
  
"You know what I think?" Justin says, still clutching the bottle of water and looking sick with worry. "When I was out there on the street, I kept wanting to go to the police, but then I somehow knew I couldn't." He twists the water bottle's cap back-and-forth, more and more distressed. "I think I knew Michael was involved and that it would kill you to find out. I think I didn't want the police involved because he'd be exposed and you'd … you'd be hurt."  
  
He has tears in his eyes so I move closer, and put my arms around him, fingers tangling in his silky hair. "First, of all, even if Michael is involved, maybe it wasn't voluntary." I speak softly in his ear, my hand rubbing circles on his back. "Didn't he say something about how the whole thing stank? And wasn't he concerned I'd get hurt? So, I'm not making assumptions about his role in this thing, not yet."  
  
"I don't want you to hate me if your friendship with him suffers."  
  
"How can I hate you? Even if he did do something, it isn't your fault."  
  
"Maybe it is! We don't know that! We have no idea why I was even there. Maybe I was part of the whole thing!"  
  
"Justin." I pull him back to fix him with a look. "You were there to collect money. Remember, I told you, that's what you said to Debbie when you called her?"  
  
"But why did Michael owe me money? I thought I worked at the diner—you said I still do! So what was I doing helping him?"  
  
"You helped a lot of people. Actually, you did a poster for me, for a charity benefit. It wasn't that unusual especially after you got so good with the computer graphics."  
  
"So, I was doing a poster for Michael?"  
  
Fuck. Now is not the time to explain the whole Rage thing to him, especially in light of what Emmett blurted out at dinner. He's bound to have questions and I'm trying to calm him down here, not drive him into a hysterical overreaction. "He just owed you some money for work you did for him—and, yes, it was artwork." I touch his lips as he opens his mouth to protest. "Listen, it's late, we're both tired. This is upsetting to both of us, but there's nothing we can do about it now, right?" Taking his face into my hands, I kiss his eyes, his nose and then his mouth—a little routine we've fallen into that always makes my fuckin' stupid heart skip a beat. "Let's go to bed," I whisper against his mouth, tasting Debbie's pasta sauce and Justin's own sweetness there, "and be _us_." Another unique thing we like to use. That word. _Us_. He and I. Brian and Justin. Yeah, it's a little crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. But it's also fuckin' hot. And it's our drug of choice these days.  
  
It works. "Okay," he whispers back, his lips curving into a tiny smile as a soft light comes back into his eyes. "I like us."  
  
Damn straight. I like us too. I give him a little kiss then stand, hauling him to his feet. "Come on. And no more speculation. We'll figure it out, but not now, okay?"  
  
He lets me lead him toward the bedroom. "Okay."  
  
I draw him closer, kissing the side of his head as we walk. "Promise?"  
  
He smiles up at me, finally getting into the spirit, the concern on his face lifting. "Yeah. Promise."

 


	20. Twenty

**Twenty: Monday, January 19–Morning**

Monday morning, after Brian goes to work, I begin the project I've been contemplating all weekend long. On Saturday, over breakfast, Brian and I talked about the memories I'd recovered on Friday night, but we didn't come to any conclusions. Yeah, it definitely looks like Michael is involved in the Mystik thing and Brian is planning on talking to him sometime later today, but I have a strong feeling that won't get us anywhere. I mean, if he somehow managed to get into Brian's safe and take the Mystik is he going to admit it? To _Brian_? I don't think so. I think he's been bullshitting both of us, maybe out of fear because, like Brian said, there could be more to this than Michael just doing some evil thing for the heck of it—which makes no sense even for Michael.   
  
Of course, there's also the whole Ethan Gold mystery. That one I've kept to myself. Sunday morning, when Brian went down the street to get bagels, I googled the guy and found out he's a violinist. He took part in a concert last month in Harrisburg, and his name comes up in all those "promising young talent" classical music lists. Oh, and he placed second in some prestigious violin competition. And, fuck, he goes to PIFA! It seems pretty clear that I probably met the guy there and _that's_ how I know him. The thought makes me queasy. God, did I fuck him? And if I did, what happened to my common sense? The thought that maybe I hurt Brian by fooling around with that little shrimp, that, well … that makes me sick.  
  
Now, though, I'm on a mission. I know Brian wouldn't be happy if he knew what I was doing, but hopefully, he won't find out. Finishing off my jelly toast, licking the last of the strawberry jam from my lips, I put the dish in the dishwasher then go to the section of brick wall that's really the safe, fingertips brushing the roughened surface until I find the corner that causes the brick façade to open. I know the combination and soon I've got the Mystik in my hand. Thank God I've known the safe's combination for a while and didn't learn it during the last fourteen months. Shit, my life is so weird.   
  
Along with the Mystik and the docking device, I find lots of paperwork with the name Tectrus Tech on it. That must be the company that makes the Mystik. It doesn't take me long to get it hooked up either, but as soon as I view the index on Brian's computer, I see the same thing he saw: the last date for Primary User (that's Brian) is in September. Shit! But I thought that might happen so I fool around with it for a while, looking for … well, I'm not sure what. Just something. I mean, the fucking thing is supposed to record voices and it should've recorded mine and Michael's and those two guys at Red Cape. So why didn't it? Stupid, sucky device.  
  
Okay, so I'm not getting what I want and it's making me mad. What about the paperwork? I grab the papers and slip out from behind the computer. Taking it all to the living room, I spread everything out on the floor. Then I start reading.   
  
Two hours go by. _Two hours_. The Tectrus people must've sent Brian every paper ever produced on the Mystik and by now I've read almost every single one. Talk about boring! The only remotely interesting stuff is the research Brian did for his ad campaign. And the campaign itself? Pure genius, but then, I'd expect nothing less from Brian. He's brilliant. I'm lucky that New York ad firm didn't want him to work for them, but who knows how long that'll last? Someone is going to snap him up soon, that's for sure. But hell, when he goes, I go too. I'm not letting him get away from me like before when he put the loft up for sale and claimed he was going to move. Of course, I was just a kid, what did I know? Ha! I laugh out loud at that thought. Of course, now I'm so mature at nineteen! Who am I kidding?  
  
Chuckling, I see a copy of a memo Christian Speers sent Brian. There have been a number of these and I've dutifully read each one, but I'm starting to get kind of tired of the whole thing. Still, I have to check out every possible angle, don't I? I wouldn't be doing my job, otherwise. So, I read it and, near the bottom, I see something that makes me sit up straight and read again:  
  
"Also, please note, I gave you the prototype that has the sub-directory feature on it. I'm sure you and I discussed this, right? It isn't on some of the earlier models but I'm sure you'll appreciate how important it's going to be that the voice recognition software can effortlessly program in _any_ voice that becomes a primary like when the user gives the device to his wife, partner, whomever."  
  
There's more. The rest of the memo explains how to access the sub-directory because the Tectrus programmers haven't had a chance to update the software and make it user-friendly—not to mention making it apparent that there _is_ a sub-directory. Holy shit! A sub-directory? That's exactly what I've been looking for!  
  
Grabbing the memo, I go back to the computer and follow the directions Mr. Speers provides. It doesn't even go through the step of uploading new information; apparently the voice data was there all along. A second later, I've accessed a _new_ index and stare at it excitedly, my heart beating like I've discovered hidden treasure. **_Two new users have been added_** , it says at the top in bright blue letters. **_Secondary User #1_** and **_Secondary User #2_**. Is Michael the first? Am I the second?  
  
I try the very first entry and almost fall off the chair when I hear Michael's voice. He's talking to Mr. Eduardo, the super in Brian's building! Heart thudding so hard my hand shakes, I scroll down the directory of Secondary User #1 until I hit December 17th. Quickly, I turn up the volume on Brian's speakers.  
  
Everything sounds muddled at first. Is the Mystik too far away? Then I hear a sound that could be … maybe a drawer opening? People are talking even as the Mystik begins to record.  
  
_Here it is. Are you satisfied?_ Michael's voice sounds even more high-pitched than normal.  
  
_Yeah._ A new voice. One I don't recognize. _Okay, Neil—per our agreement Ten grand? That's what he owes me._  
  
Neil? Is that Shark Eyes or Jaws?  
  
Silence, then. _Lovely doing business with you, Gary, as always._  
  
Gary? Shit! There are too many people in the discussion. Maybe that's the guy who was coming out of the store? But wasn't his name Sap?  
  
Footsteps. Then a door opens and closes. I hear some low murmurs, like people are almost too far away for the Mystik to pick up their voices. More footsteps. Are they coming back to where Michael is standing?  
  
_All right, I did what you asked, but this whole thing stinks._  
  
Fuck! I stiffen as I recognize the words from my recovered memory two days ago. I grip the smooth surface of the mouse so hard I'm afraid I'll crack the plastic.  
  
_You made a great decision, Michael. We benefit, you benefit, no one gets hurt._  
  
_If anyone connects Brian to this, he sure as hell will get hurt, not to mention what it'll do to me!_  
  
_Thanks to you, the device will be tucked away in his safe by the time he returns from Philadelphia. Stop being such a fuckin' wuss. Here, give me the Mystik and we'll get out of here._  
  
Holding my breath, I wait for the next words.  
  
Michael sounds even angrier. _You fucking extorted me into doing this and now **I'm** the wuss because I'm concerned about my friend?_  
  
_Your friend won't get hurt._ It's the other guy speaking, Jaws, the one who sounds so self-assured.  
  
_He **will** get hurt._ Michael also sounds very sure of himself. _The Tectrus people will probably figure out the Mystik belonged to him. Then VanGard will lose the account and Brian's reputation will be ruined._  
  
_Better his reputation than his **life**._  
  
On a sharp inhale, I hit the Pause button. My God. They threatened Michael like _that_? That they'd kill Brian? Shit, these guys are even deadlier than Brian thought. And they almost had _me_? An involuntary shudder passes through me. Fuck, how did Mikey get himself into such trouble? Because he owed money to that sleazy guy, Sapperstein? I hit Play.  
  
Michael is all but choking out his words. _You'd kill someone over a stupid device that records people's conversations?_  
  
_A device worth millions, if not billions of dollars. Now give it to me and we'll be gone. Kinney won't be back until Saturday so we—_  
  
_What about the money you promised me?_ Michael demands.  
  
Shit, so he _is_ profiting from this? Damn.  
  
Jaw's voice drops and he sounds disgusted. _Oh, so you **are** interested in something other than your friend's welfare? We took care of your debt to Sapperstein. That's money enough._  
  
_So, now you're cheating me?_  
  
Shark Eyes speaks up. _No honor among thieves, huh?_ Both Mafia guys laugh like it's some big joke.  
  
_And what makes you believe I won't go to the police?_  
  
Okay, now Michael is starting to sound petulant. With two guys who say they'll _kill_ to get what they want. Fuck, Mikey, where's your brain?   
  
_And, besides,_ he continues, _doesn't this thing record people's conversations? Everything we said could—_  
_  
It only records the primary user's voice. It isn't recording now,_ Shark Eyes says with smug authority.  
  
Of course, I have to smile at that. Got you, sucker! I wonder if the police will be able to figure out who these guys are from this conversation? Maybe through the Sap guy?  
  
Jaws sounds nastier than ever. _And you have too much to lose to tell the cops. You're the one who took the Mystik out of Kinney's safe. And you're the one with the financial motive, which I'm sure Sapperstein would be willing to testify to. Besides, once we return the device to you and disappear, you'd never find us._  
  
_Michael! What the hell are you doing?_  
  
Oh, my, God, that's me!. I hit Pause again, Shit, I sound outraged and angry, and fuckin' pissed off. That's _me_ and I'm there at Michael's comic book store with those two creeps, confronting all three of them. What the hell made me do that? Because Brian was gonna get hurt? Shit, I can't believe I spoke up like that. It's ballsy even for me.  
  
Swallowing hard, I hit Play.  
  
_Oh, shit. Nothing, Justin._ Michael sounds surprised as hell. _Look, I'll be with you in a second. I'm just having a little business meeting._  
  
_About the Mystik? What the hell are you doing with it?_  
  
_This kid knows about the Mystik? Who's he?_ Shark Eyes sounds alarmed.  
  
_He's no one—_  
  
_You can't give them the prototype, Michael. It'll kill Brian if he finds out you betrayed him like that. And you're doing it because you owe money to the Sap? That makes no—_  
  
Shit! Why the fuck am I spouting that stuff? Do I have a death wish?   
  
_Justin!_ Michael is actually yelling by this point. _Get the hell out of here!_  
  
_Wait a fuckin' second! It's not that easy,_ Shark Eyes says immediately.  
  
_Give me that thing!_  
  
_Justin, what're you doing? Give it back! You can't—_  
  
_Let go of me!_  
  
Shit! I hear scuffling sounds and grunts of pain. Michael is shouting for them to stop, I'm yelling at them to let go and struggling to pull free, and those two thugs have their hands on me. It goes on like that for an agonizing fifteen seconds and then I hear a sound that makes me flinch: a solid thud, like something hard hitting something even harder.   
  
Before I know what I'm doing, I hit Pause again. Only then do I realize that I'm breathing a little fast, that I'm cold, but sweating. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's the PTSD stuff. Like on Christmas night when Brian found me. I struggle to take some deep breaths. It was the sound I just heard, I'm sure of that because that's just about all I remember from the bashing. Brian calling to me and that sound, that horrible sound that took me into unconsciousness in the blink of an eye. And now I've heard that same sound again, wood against bone. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I just heard my head hitting something solid in Michael's store—the wooden counter?  
  
It takes me a few minutes, but by concentrating on my breathing and not thinking about that sound I somehow manage to keep myself from falling into that strange flashback place where I relive the whole fucking experience. Damn. I want some water because my mouth is so dry, but I put off going to the kitchen because, first, I want to hear what happened. I take a deep breath and click Play.  
  
For a while, there are voices on top of voices and it's all very confusing. Michael is trying to make sure I'm okay and sounds genuinely upset that I've been hurt. He accuses Shark Eyes of deliberately slamming my head against the counter, which the jerk, of course, denies. Michael takes me to the back room then leaves to get some water. The Mystik must still be clutched in my hand because the voices in the other room sound far off as the two thugs ask Michael who I am and what I know. I guess I'm so out of it they don't think I'm any kind of a threat. Then Michael comes back, helps me take a drink, and is trying to find out how badly I'm hurt.   
  
_Justin? You hit your head. Do you remember that? Just a minute ago?_  
  
_No, but … why am I here?_  
  
Hell, I sounded confused, and barely conscious.  
  
_You came to get the Rage money. Here, let me give you what I have while I'm thinking about it._  
  
_What? Rage?_  
  
Here we go again with the Rage confusion!   
  
_Put the money in your pocket,_ Michael tells me because I must be just holding it.  
  
_Where's Brian? I should tell him I hit my head,_ I say a moment later. _He'll want me to call Dr. Radnor._  
  
_You and Brian aren't… Justin, are you all right? Uh, tell me something. Where do you live?_  
  
_With Brian, of course. My head hurts, Michael. Why're you asking stupid questions?_  
  
_Shit. What month is it?_  
  
Of course, I give him a date that's fourteen months earlier than the December date, and that's when Michael really panics. He tells Shark Eyes and Jaws that he has to take me to the ER, but, of course, being the caring men they are, they're more concerned with what I'll remember once they leave.  
  
_Great, then he won't remember us,_ Jaws says as they talk a distance away, the Mystik barely picking up their words.  
  
_That isn't good enough,_ Shark Eyes says to him. _He could blow up this whole thing. We're gonna need to take him._  
  
_What do you mean, **take him**?_ Michael asks, and now he sounds panicked.  
  
_With us._ Shark Eyes sounds like he discussing what he'll have for dinner, it's so commonplace to him. _We'll have to keep him until we get the Mystik info to Brogla and you put the prototype back in Kinney's safe._  
  
_Are you fuckin' crazy? You can't keep him! He's a human being! You can't just lock him up because it suits you._  
  
_You seem to forget that he can point the finger at you. Is that what you want?_ Jaws says to Michael, his tone nasty and sneering. _Once it's a done deal, that's different. Then he can rant all he wants, but there won't be any evidence to prove what he's saying._  
  
_I'm not going to let you make him a prisoner!_  
  
_It'll only be for a few days. Besides, you don't fucking have any other choice!_  
  
Right then, the voices fade. I hear a door open and then the sound of someone running. A moment later, although the sound is muffled, I hear car noises, footsteps, even people's voices. I'm on Liberty and I've taken the Mystik with me. I'm getting away from those guys as fast as I can.  
  
Fuck! As I listen to the beginnings of my journey on the streets of Pittsburgh, I hit Pause again and sit there, shivering. Motherfuckin' piece of shit Michael _was_ lying through his teeth and now I can prove it! Here Brian is feeling like he needs to give Michael the benefit of the doubt and all the time good old Mikey is guilty as hell. Well, shit, I'm going to bust him so hard he'll wonder what hit him. I grab the phone and dial 411. A moment later, I'm being connected to Red Cape, but his answering machine picks up. Shit! More machines.   
  
"Michael?" I say when the thing beeps. "I've got news for you. The Mystik recorded your conversation with those thugs. Yeah, that's right. I've got it all on that little device and I'm bringing it down there so you can hear it for yourself. Then you and I are going to figure out how to deal with this thing so Brian doesn't end up hurt." Slamming the phone down, I sit there for a long moment looking at it like it'll answer me back. I'm really pissed and I guess I have a right to be. Thanks to Michael I got whacked on the head and I've been in trouble ever since trying to remember all the lost months of my life, not to mention the time I spent wandering around on the streets, freaked out and confused. Shit, it makes me furious!  
  
Going to the bedroom, I strip off my sweats and jump into the shower because I'm grungy and I stink. It doesn't take me long because I can't wait to get down to Red Cape and lay into Michael. I know Brian isn't going to like it if he finds out I took the Mystik out of the loft, but I need it as evidence so Michael can't weasel out of the accusations I'm going to make. And Brian was the one who said that Shark Eyes and Jaws wouldn't be after me anymore because they'd know the Mystik was back with him. So why am I afraid to stick my nose out the front door after more than a month unless Brian is with me?   
  
As I get dressed, I try to think rationally. I shouldn't go popping off on Michael or anyone. And I shouldn't do anything that might endanger me or the multi-million dollar toy Brian has been entrusted with. But, shit, I am so tired of everything. I'm nineteen-years-old and I can't go anywhere or do anything. Being with Brian … that's wonderful and I'm not complaining about that. I love Brian and I love the time we spend together. I love _us_. But I have to have a life too, don't I? And that means getting past all this shit: the Mystik, Michael, the Mafia guys, even all the mysterious Ethan Gold stuff. It means getting back my memory and dealing with whatever needs to be dealt with so Brian and I can go on together. And there's even _Thaddeus_ , who I haven't stopped thinking about and want to find a way to help. How can I do that when I'm afraid to step out my own front door? All of it, it seems to me, starts with confronting Michael. And, besides, I'd feel like a total little faggot if I had to sit around like some tame blond twink and wait for Brian to get home. This'll be okay. I'll only be gone two hours at the most, and by then I'll have a plan of action put together for how to deal with Brian.  
  
I've pulled on my shoes, grabbed the Mystik out of its cradle, and picked up my wallet when someone knocks on the loft door. I stop in the middle of the floor, staring. Shit. I hate it when people get into the building without announcing themselves. Walking to the kitchen, I remove a bottle of water from the refrigerator and open it, taking a long drink. Maybe they'll go away if I don't answer. I jam both the Mystik and wallet into my cargoes, drink more water, and try to remember how often the #14 bus runs.  
  
Someone knocks again.  
  
Fuck! So, I'm going to cower here behind the door and hope this person goes away? It's probably some stupid salesman. Aren't they usually the most persistent? Or maybe the Girl Scouts. I slam the water down and march over to the door, pulling it back with a grunt.  
  
It's Ian. I mean, Ethan.  
  
"Justin!" He smiles at me very intimately like we just got finished having a fabulous talk. "I'm so glad it's you and not that asshole."  
  
"Get the fuck away from me," I say. "I don't need a stalker, and Brian is _not_ an asshole."  
  
"But he is, you just don't know it."   
  
He takes a step toward me so I back up.  
  
"He's lying to you," Ethan says with all this earnestness in his face.  
  
"I don't care. Get out of here." He takes another step toward me so I back up more, going around the corner and into the kitchen, Ethan following.   
  
"You and I were lovers," Ethan tells me. He holds up his finger and I see a ring there. "See this? You had one too. We lived together, Justin. You weren't living with Brian, you were living with me when this all happened."  
  
Fuck! What's he saying? That makes no sense at all! "Oh, really? Interesting." I back up again, but he's still following me. "Because it was _Brian_ I called and _Brian_ who came to get me when I needed him, not you."  
  
"That's just because we'd had a fight," Ethan says, his face getting mournful like it was some huge tragedy. You walked out on me. I was looking for you, but I had no idea where you'd gone."  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"It's true! We've been living together for months! They brought all your things back here that night he found you and—"  
  
Then, like a hellish nightmare rising up to devour me, Shark Eyes and Jaws come around the corner, looking grim and focused. Before I can even open my mouth to warn Ethan, Jaws grabs him from behind, his arm around his throat in a chokehold. Ethan's eyes go round with terror and he struggles, but not a sound comes out of him. In a few terrifying seconds, his eyes roll up into his head and he slumps forward, unconscious.   
  
A deep roaring fills my ears as I back away from them, frantically groping for something, anything I can use as a weapon.   
  
As Ethan is eased to the floor, Shark Eyes comes toward me, a calm assurance in his eyes. He quickly shifts to my left, like he's trying to avoid my strong side. It occurs to me how lucky I was the first time when I took him by surprise because he's behaving like an expert, used to taking people down. Then, as if to prove that, he grabs my shoulder, whirling me around before I can struggle or protest or anything. I manage one, quickly cut-off shout. He applies the same hold to my neck, one arm around my throat, the other locked on his wrist as leverage. But I realize I can still breathe, that he isn't trying to cut off my oxygen, that he's doing something else I can't figure out.  
  
Grabbing him, I claw at his arm, struggling to pull free, kicking my feet.   
  
I try to scream, but nothing comes out, and the world around me begins to fade, my muscles losing their strength, my breathing erratic, all of my will running out of me like someone is siphoning it away.  
  
Then everything goes black.


	21. Twenty-One

**Twenty-One: Monday, January 19–Afternoon**

Maneuvering around an ambulance and a few cop cars, I bring the Jeep to a halt in front of the loft and jump out, swearing as I stalk to my building's entrance. A cop stops me, but, when I show him my drivers' license and curse at him because it takes him a second to realize it's _my_ fuckin' place where everything's happening, my level of ire rises so high my head nearly blows up. Finally, taking the steps two at a time, I make it to the fourth floor. Stepping inside, the first thing I see is Ethan, sitting on my sofa, paramedics on either side, their red-and-white medical kits surrounding them.  
  
"You fuckin' piss-poor excuse of a human being!" I'm in motion, determined to get my hands on him and do some _real_ damage for them to treat.  
  
"Brian! Brian!" It's Carl Horvath and he's got me by the arm, holding me back. "Cut it out! I didn't call you so you could make a scene."  
  
"This is his fault!" Jabbing a finger in Ian's direction, I realize I'm out of control, but don't fuckin' care. "He's the motherfuckin' liar who weaseled his way in here to—"  
  
"No, it's not his fault." Horvath is dragging me away from where they're sitting. "He's the victim. He was attacked."  
  
"Where Justin? I don't give a fuck about Ian and his bullshit!" We're close to the front door by this time, and, still breathing hard, I take the time to look around. There are cops in the kitchen with their forensic kits, examining God-only-knows-what; others are snooping around doing everything but peeking under the rugs. Focusing on Carl, I see the deep lines of worry in his worn face. "Is there any indication … do you have any idea where Justin is?"  
  
"You called all the places you—"  
  
"Yes. He's at none of them. He could be on a bus somewhere, but …" Not finishing the sentence, the despair I've been holding at bay ever since Carl called me at VanGard about twenty minutes ago washes over me. Fuck! What the hell happened? Justin can't be missing again. I won't accept that. He can't be. He's _somewhere_. Maybe he ran out of here after Ian got hurt although, shit, that doesn't make sense unless he was being chased. "Okay," I say, taking some deep breaths as I search hard for calm, "so Mr. Eduardo called 911 because the panic button on the security keypad was pushed?"  
  
Carl nods, his face grave. "Mr. Gold pushed it when he woke up." He indicates the kitchen floor, gesturing with his head. "Over there."  
  
Pulling out a cigarette, I flip open my lighter and try to light it, though my hand's shaking. Fuck! Finally, I succeed, and take a deep drag, the bitter taste of tobacco on my tongue a welcome relief. I'm trying to _not_ be as freaked as I feel. Looking around again, I attempt to figure out what took place here, to think rationally. If something's happened to Justin, I can't help him if I'm queening like some fuckin' lesbian. "And he says he saw no one? That someone jumped him from behind?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"Justin must've left the door opened when Ethan came in."  
  
Carl frowns. "He did say that he and Justin were having a rather intense discussion."  
  
Again, I want to pound the little motherfuckin' piece of shit, but realize there's bigger problems than Ian's insane desire to ruin the good thing I've got going with Justin. God! Justin! What's happened to him? My stomach twists at the thought that those same guys who were chasing him when he was out on the street finally got him. Then my stupefied brain starts to wake up. If that's the case, did they force him to open the safe? But, no, I look in that direction and see nothing but brick wall. I notice the pile of papers on the living room rug. "Can I look around, Carl?"  
  
"Yes, just don't touch anything."  
  
Heading for the rug, I crouch down, examining the papers scattered about. Tectrus Tech's logo stares back at me. Shit! He did get into the safe. He was reading the documentation, probably because he hoped he could figure out some aspect of this thing I'd overlooked. The little shit. He's too smart for his own good, although … yeah, that was a great idea because I do tend to move too fast sometimes. I miss things he sees. But did he find something? And even if did, how in hell does that explain those thugs picking that precise moment to slam their way in here? When I raise my eyes, I see that Ian is staring down at me.  
  
"I was just talking to him," he says, that poor-poor-pitiful-me expression set firmly in place as the paramedic deflates the blood pressure cuff on his arm.  
  
"If I ever see you anywhere near here again, I'll get a restraining order," I say, my teeth clamped together as I spit out the words. "This is your lucky day, you fucked-up-excuse-of-a-human-being. If the cops weren't here to protect your sorry ass, I'd kick it from here to the New York state line."  
  
He quivers, looking at the two paramedics as if to find sympathy there. Neither one of them so much as blinks.  
  
"Brian?"  
  
I stand up and go the few feet to where Carl and another man are huddled around my computer. Right away, I see the Mystik's docking station, but my attention is drawn to something in the other officer's hand: a tiny electronic device no larger than the end of my finger.   
  
"It's a radio transmitter," Carl says, his face reflecting confusion and concern in equal measure.  
  
"Where …?"  
  
"Under the desk. Not very well placed, but I'm imagining it did the trick."  
  
"So someone was monitoring my phone calls?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Can I take a look at the computer?"  
  
"Sure."   
  
I put out my cigarette then the officer and I exchange places. It doesn't take long to see that not only did Justin synch the Mystik, he found the sub-directory I somehow _did_ overlook when I tried the same thing right after Christmas. I glance up at Horvath. "This is going to sound like something off the Sci-Fi Channel, Carl."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Come around here and I'll show you. And give me one of your rubber gloves." I wait until he's on the other side of the desk, and then, using the glove, I position the cursor over the entry for December 17th, not at all sure what I'll find, but very much aware that I won't like it. "Listen to this."

*******

Thanks to my long legs, I make it into Red Cape while Carl's still coming around his car. All the way over here he's been making suggestions like, keep your mouth shut, let me do the talking, maybe it isn't what it seems to be. Yeah, right. His prejudice is showing although, fuck, shouldn't _both_ of us be on Mikey's side? Inside, the store's deserted except for Michael who's sitting behind the counter on his stool, eyes fixed on me. Appropriately, he's dressed all in black, the garish colors all around him in marked contrast to his somber tones. After Carl's curt phone call to let him know we were on our way, he's not looking happy. I strode over to him and slap down the Mystik's transcript from December 17th, leaning forward, hands propped on the hard wood, to make sure he's paying attention. "You let those fuckin' bastards slam Justin's head onto this countertop? Shit, Mikey, you knew he already had one head injury. Were you hoping to kill him?"  
  
"Fuck, Brian, you know that's not how it was!" He comes back at me with equal anger, waving a hand at the stapled papers on the counter. "That's from the Mystik, right?"  
  
"You know about it?" I ask, confused because Carl didn't tell him what we found.  
  
"Justin called me, earlier." Michael takes a deep breath. "If you read that, you know I was freaked when they did that to him. I tried to help! I was just as much a victim as he was!"  
  
"Okay, boys, let's calm down," Carl says now that he's made it to my side.  
  
"Calm down, nothing! You a victim? You fucking did _what_ so that you owed the Sap ten grand? Fuck, the _Sap_! What the hell were you thinking? You know that man is nothing but a sleaze!"  
  
"I didn't have a choice!" he shouts, with enough anger to match mine. "They backed me into a corner and then put the squeeze on me!"  
  
"So you thought it would be just peachy keen and dandy if you _robbed_ me?"  
  
"Hold on, hold on," Carl says, calm and matter of fact, arms out like he's directing traffic. "One thing at a time." He looks over at Michael. "Justin called you when?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe around 11:00. It's still on the machine." He nods toward the device behind him.  
  
Carl goes around the counter, and, with Michael's help, plays the message.  
  
Fuck! As I listen, I realize that Justin totally lost his shit. I knew he was getting frustrated with not being able to go anywhere, but I didn't think he'd go off so completely when he learned the truth about Michael. Ever since the bashing, he's been capable of that type of sudden blow-up, although usually it's only if he's under a lot of stress. It makes me wonder how he'll react when he gets his memory back. Will that angry tirade be turned on me? Staring at Michael as the message ends, I can feel my expression harden. "So, all those two creeps had to do was _listen_ and he told them everything they needed to know. My phone was bugged, Michael. That's how they knew Justin had the Mystik."  
  
Michael's gaze drops. "I know."  
  
"You know what?"  
  
He has two spots of color in his cheeks that weren't there before. "I know your phone was bugged. I put that device there."  
  
I make a grab for him across the counter, but in one quick movement, Carl pulls him back, almost knocking him off the stool in the process. "Brian! Stop it! Beating up Michael won't get Justin back." He fixes his eyes on Mikey, his own expression none-too-pleased. "Start at the beginning, Michael. Tell us how this happened."  
  
Michael is almost pouting. "Why should I? Brian will blame me no matter what."  
  
"Just do what he says, Mikey!" Slamming my hands down on the counter, I want to shake him 'til his teeth rattle. "Do you fucking understand that your 'friends' have Justin? Your friends who said they didn't mind killing me if they had to? Does that sink into your brain at all?"  
  
"That's exactly why I did it! Don't you get that?" He pushes the words at me, angry weapons he's lobbing at my head. "They threatened to get the device at gunpoint or worse, to grab you on the street and force you back to the loft where they'd make you open that safe. I didn't want you to get hurt!"  
  
"And you couldn't come to us, Michael?" Carl asks, his voice a quiet accusation.  
  
Michael rubs his face with both hands, looking very frustrated. "It's not that simple, Carl."  
  
"Tell us what happened," Carl says, although it's really more of a command.  
  
Michael exhales, glancing at me for a fraction of a second before his eyes settle on his hands clenched in his lap. "I … got into some financial trouble, with the store. A new property management company took control of a bunch of the stores around here, mine included. And the first thing they did was raise the rent. Right away, people started talking, saying they wanted to drive us out so they could renovate the entire area, make it more upscale after they'd razed the buildings. I got behind in the rent, which was half again as much as it'd been before."  
  
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I ask him through gritted teeth. Damn, the stupid things Mikey does sometimes never fails to astonish me. "We could've helped. Certainly I could've—"  
  
"Fuck no!" Mikey raises his eyes to glare at me. "You're always doing stuff like that, Brian. I wasn't about to let it happen especially considering how you helped me get the store in the first place. It was too fucking humiliating to think the whole thing was about to crash and burn, that it was my responsibility and not even two years into it, I'd blown it already. I had to prove that I could be a small business owner _without_ your help."  
  
"So, what happened?" Carl asks, and I notice he's got a pad and pencil, and he's taking notes.   
  
"A lawyer got involved, a guy named Max Cusson. He was representing all of us in the lawsuit we filed, claiming the rent increases were not only exorbitant, but also illegal. He advised us to withhold our rent until the suit was settled."  
  
"Never a good idea," I mutter, and turn, pacing away, wishing like hell he'd talk faster. "Go on."  
  
"Long story short, I got deep into debt because I … because other problems came up and I didn't manage the money the way I should've. There was a problem with one of my distributors who suddenly went out of business and took my advance with him. Plus, I insisted on fixing the roof when Ma had that problem in the fall. The whole thing with the lawsuit went on, I don't know, eight months, maybe more. But, we lost the suit and the day came when we had to fork over the money we owed or face eviction."  
  
I paced back to him, and put my hands flat on the counter, fingertips sliding against polished wood. "And somehow," I say, sarcastic and biting and fucking angry, "when that happened, the Sap just happened to know you were in trouble."  
  
"I never dealt with a loan shark before, Brian!" Mikey is now using the tone of voice I hate most, the cajoling, whining one. "How was I to know he'd start charging me five-percent interest per week once the money I owed him became due?"   
  
"So you paid off what you owed on the store, but now Gary Sapperstein was breathing down your neck?" Carl asks. He shakes his head. "We've been trying to get that guy for a long time. I sure hope this one sticks."  
  
"The trouble is," Michael says, and he ventures another look at me, "being in debt to Gary was a whole hell of a lot worse than being in debt to my landlord."  
  
Fuck me. Can this story get anymore crap-tastic? I've known Mikey since he was fourteen and he's done a lot of stupid things during those years, but this one tops them all. I mean, how naïve can one man be? He's the same age as me yet he acts like a ten-year-old although, shit, I've known some pretty perceptive ten-year-olds. And, fuck! Why the hell didn't he come to me? I thought we were friends, I thought we helped each other, I fucking thought I could tell him anything and he could do the same. Is this something that's happened because of Justin and me? That Mikey feels like he can't come to me, can't talk about his problems? I'm not an idiot. I knew he felt like somehow Justin was taking his place and, let's face it, he was fuckin' glad when he went off with the fiddler. So, does that make _me_ the one to blame for all of this?   
  
And, shit! What about Justin? God, he's out there somewhere. Maybe he's scared out of his mind, maybe his PTSD will kick in, maybe those bastards … No, no, no. Can't go there. Can't start speculating or I'll be useless. _Shut it down, Kinney—now_. "So, that's when those two thugs turned up?" I say to Michael. "After the Sap started harassing you?'  
  
He nods. "And I resisted them, Brian. For a long time. You have to believe that."  
  
I manage to not look disgusted, to keep my face neutral. "Okay."  
  
"They tried all kinds of tactics to force me to do what they wanted. Making the money I owed the Sap go away was only their opening shot. They broke into the diner and trashed the place. They robbed Ben one night, right on campus. They even approached Uncle Vic and put a gun in his back—a _gun_ —and told him to make sure I knew." Mikey stops, lips compressed, looking very pissed, very scared.  
  
"So, finally you caved?" Carl asks.  
  
"I didn't, not at first. But then they told me what I said before, that if I thought I was being a good friend by not helping them get the device, I was dead wrong." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck. They said they'd get it from you, one way or another, and if you died in the process, that would be on my head." He looks at me and I see the tears. "I couldn't let that happen, Brian, and I know you don't remember this, but I _knew_ the safe's combination; you told me one night when you were drunk, after I brought you home. I'm sorry. They were serious and I did what I thought I had to do." He thumbs the corner of one eye. "And Justin was just a horrible accident—he never should've been involved in the whole thing."  
  
Of course, I heard how Justin injected himself into that scene. The kid has a way of going commando at the exact wrong time. And it'd been interesting that he chose _that_ moment, especially seeing as how he and I weren't together when that happened. There he was defending my honor, but what I want to know is, why?   
  
"I want you to come down to the station with us, Michael," Horvath says just then.  
  
"Am I under arrest?"  
  
"No. It sounds very much like you were extorted. Right now, though, we've got to figure out who these two thugs are because they're the ones who have Justin—at least that's what we have to assume."  
  
I run a hand through my hair and suddenly want a cigarette.   
  
"We're bringing Sapperstein in for questioning," Carl goes on, "so you need to be there, to tell your story."  
  
"What're you doing about finding Justin?" Michael wants to know, glancing at me, but quickly looking away.  
  
"We have Brian's computer, with the voice data on it. Our forensics people will be analyzing it. And we're hoping Sapperstein will give us a name. Oh." He looks over at me. "And you were going to call the CEO of … what was the company's name?"  
  
"Tectrus Tech. Yeah. I'll do that right now." Pulling out my cell phone, I head outside, deciding that Vance Gardner will be the person I call after Christian. This is going to kill him. I wouldn't be surprised if he found some way to get rid of me after he hears what I have to tell him. There goes my chance to use an amazing opportunity like the Mystik account, along with the whole Stockwell thing, to propel myself out of the Pitts and into the New York scene ... or start my own agency. But, shit, what else can I do? Justin is more important than any of that shit and that means I've got to come clean with Christian.  
  
Looking up and down Liberty, I imagine what it must have been like for Justin that day, December 17th, hurrying away from some nameless threat, not even sure why, just knowing he had to run. Poor kid, he stepped in it, didn't he? It's so fucking unfair. He's got principles and he stands up for them and _this_ is what he gets? You'd think he would've learned after the Chris Hobbs affair, but, no, Justin's idealistic nature is too deeply engrained and a strong part of who he is. It isn't something that's going away after a few chance encounters with violence although, God, that's _not_ what's happened this time. I refuse to believe that. I can't. Why would those assholes hurt him? He hasn't done anything to them. But, shit, no matter what the outcome, it sure seems like we've all let him down—me, Michael, his parents, all of us. Me more than anyone else, though.   
  
A pain around my heart, I scroll through my contacts, find Christian's name, and hit Send.


	22. Twenty-Two

**Twenty-Two: Monday, January 19–Evening**

Even after I wake up it takes a long time to understand what's going on, where I am, almost _who_ I am. At first, still groggy, the smell of dust, mildew, and—what the fuck?—mothballs comes to me, but means nothing. I can't remember what happened and, when I do, I'm not able to figure out how I got from my last memory, when I was struggling with Shark Eyes, to _here_. Of course, I'm also not sure where _here_ is, I just know that my woozy, crazy comprehension of my world right now includes not being able to move, speak, or even see. Which, as I slowly become more and more conscious, I realize is fuckin' terrifying.  
  
I'm tied up. That's what I finally understand. My hands are behind a chair and have been tied with something at the wrists—from the sticky feel, duct tape is my guess. And my legs are tied to the chair legs. There's a gag in my mouth that's really tight, and something over my eyes large enough to completely block out the light. When I finally form this complete picture of what's happened to me and what my present condition is, I don't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of being in such a clichéd position that's right out of the movies, or scream. Of course, screaming is not going to do much good, but still, it remains a viable option while I struggle with the bonds and try to speak, and do all the things people always do when they're tied up.  
  
Finally, I calm down. I can't get free so it makes no sense to struggle just for the hell of it. I need to think, to try to figure out what's going on and why I'm here. Right away, once I'm quiet, when my breathing gradually returns to normal, and my heart stops pounding so frantically in my ears, I realize I can hear voices coming from … well, it sounds like I'm in one room and those two creeps are in another. Yet, I can hear them. Not well, and not all the time, but sometimes I catch crystal-clear pieces of their conversation. Maybe it's a small … house? apartment? Maybe they're walking back and forth, coming closer to where I am sometimes? I'm not sure, but I start paying attention.  
  
"They'll call," I hear one of them say, although it's more of a growl. "Just relax. They're taking care of it!"  
  
"You just had to bring him here! You and your fuckin' stupid ideas!"  
  
"He could identify us, you moron! Do you get that?"  
  
"But he could already do that so what—"  
  
"No, he couldn't!" the creep yells, and, yeah, I'm pretty sure it's Shark Eyes I'm hearing. "He lost his memory and it hasn't come back! Are you paying attention at all?"  
  
"But he saw us again, after that crack on the head, remember? He could've identified us then, when he knocked me down, when he—"  
  
"He didn't understand what was going on and he was on the run that time. He had no reason to finger us and no one would've believed him anyway. Now, everything's changed."  
  
"I think there's more to it than that, Neil. I think it's payback, on your part. You wanted—"  
  
"Just shut up! I said shut the fuck up!"  
  
How in hell does he know my memory hasn't come back? And, fuck, how'd he know I was about to leave the loft and would have the Mystik with me? That's freaking me out almost as much as being their prisoner. And talk about freak out! Payback? Neil is Shark Eyes, right? So, he's pissed at _me_ , personally? I try to swallow, but the spit isn't coming. They must've moved to another part of the room because all I'm hearing is muffled sounds coming through a wall or a door. So, they took me because I was a knowledgeable witness who knew what they wanted and why? Fuck me. Can my life get any worse? Okay, yeah, it could. I could get _killed_ for instance, although, I am very tempted to say, "Been there, done that." Shit! This is unreal! Who the hell is in charge of the universe and where can I go to talk to him/her/it? I'll bet whoever the deity is he's not gay because if he were, he'd know how it's _so_ unfair that _I'm_ the one tied up and in fear of his life … again. _Okay, deep breaths_ , I think when I feel myself start to go off into a panic. Funny, come on, be funny, be light, don't lose it. No self-pity, right, because … pity makes my dick soft? Isn't that what Brian would say?  
  
Immediately, I feel the pain stab my heart. God, poor Brian. I know he's out there somewhere going crazy. And I did it to myself! Doesn't that make it _twice_ I've set myself up and then let someone take me down? Yeah, I'm pretty sure it does. And both times, now and when I got bashed, Brian was supposed to be protecting me and thought he'd failed when I got smashed … at least, I have to assume that's how he's feeling right now with me being gone again. Fuck. I need to stop being so damn impulsive. Maybe everyone's right. I am young. And stupid. God, I hate myself right now, especially for the hurt and worry I'm causing Brian. Oh, and my mom. Shit, my poor mother. Once a long time ago, she had this nice, normal son who never caused her a moment's trouble. Now she's got this danger-prone son who goes around declaring that he's a queer and/or mouthing off about one thing or another at every available opportunity, creating problems. Fuck, why don't I grow up and just be who I am without all the fuss?   
  
The piercing sound of a cell phone brings me back to the ugly present … the one I've been trying to avoid. I groan, working my wrists, which ache from the pressure on them. Little pinpricks of pain greet me as the duct tape pulls at hairs, but I can't otherwise move them.  
  
"Yeah?" I hear Shark Eyes say. "Okay. Yes, we have it right here. Yes. Look, why am I repeating everything to you? I already told you and that guy, Partlow, I took him because he saw us! Okay, right … right. When? Great. Tell him to get a move on it. We need to get out of here before the police somehow track us down."  
  
Shit, now what's happened? I strain to hear and fortunately, they don't move away from wherever-the-fuck they're standing.   
  
"Okay, they're sending someone named Clayton Dowler to get the Mystik."  
  
"From Brogla? What about us?"   
  
"He's bringing plane tickets, cash, and new cell phones."  
  
"And the rest of the money?"  
  
"Off-shore bank, just like we requested. He'll be here at 8:00 a.m. with a car to take us to the airport."  
  
"And the kid?"  
  
"The kid stays here." Shark Eyes laughs and there's a malicious edge to the sound. "He's going to get pretty damn uncomfortable because it'll be a day or two before we 'remember' to call the cops and let them know where he is." He chuckles like it's the funniest thing he's ever said. "That'll teach the fucking little faggot to kick _me_ in the nuts."  
  
They move then and I'm left in the dark, literally, to contemplate what he's said. So, if I'm very lucky, in two days I might get out of here? Two days without food, water, or bathroom breaks? God! And if I'm _not_ lucky, then what?   
  
Once again, I struggle against the bonds, trying to pull my hands apart, bucking against the chair, attempting to scoot it even a few inches, but nothing gives or moves and I'm getting nowhere, fuckin' nowhere.  
  
Breathing hard, I stop struggling, and, motherfuckin' son of a bitch, I can feel the tears burning my eyes. Great! I'm going to sit here and be the little faggot they think I am! I'm going to sit here and fuckin' _die_ a slow, painful death if they forget about me! I'm going to sit here and regret every stupid, fuckin' thing I've ever done in my short, pathetic life, but most of all, all the time I wasted when I should've been loving Brian.   
  
I _can't_ die, though. Right away, I realize that. It's impossible. Because if I do, it would destroy Brian. I know without a shadow of a doubt it would. So, no—not a possibility. I cannot die because Brian can't be hurt like that. It's not even a consideration. Fuck that. Nothing bad is going to happen to me because nothing bad can happen to Brian. I won't let it. He's fucking suffered enough and it's going to end here and now. I'll grow up, I'll stop being such a drama queen, I'll be okay with being the kid, the young one, the inexperienced one. I won't argue with him. I'll devote myself to loving Brian and making him feel good about who he is and who _we_ are.   
  
That's exactly what I'm going to do.   
  
It'll all be fine.   
  
Somehow, I'm going to make sure of that.


	23. Twenty-Three

**Twenty-Three: Tuesday, January 20–early morning**

When the phone rings at 6:30 a.m., I lean across the couch and grab it off the end table. "Kinney."  
  
"Brian!" It's fucking Christian, who's chosen this exact moment in time to go off on a wildlife excursion in Kenya, of all places. "What the hell is going on? I must've gotten ten calls from irate staff members saying you harassed them to within an inch of their lives about some urgent message for my ears alone!"  
  
"How the fuck can you be out of touch for so many hours?" I ask, a growl in my voice, forgetting I'm the one who ought to be humble, considering what I have to tell him. Jumping up, I begin to pace, the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back tense as I make the circuit around the living room to the entertainment center and back toward my desk.  
  
"We're getting ready to launch in the next four months. Is there some crime in taking my family on a nice vacation? I know my life is soon going to revolve completely around Tectrus and I needed some time off before that happens." He sounds very humored by what I've said, like a man enjoying his vacation. "And, yes, I had to promise my wife we'd remain secluded and out of touch with the office except during set times when I'd call in. Now can you tell me what the fuck's up? I've got a massage in twenty minutes."  
  
Shit. Taking a deep breath, I launch into my story, telling it straight without a lot of it-really-isn't-my-fault or I'm-somehow-the-victim-here bullshit like I heard from Mikey all afternoon and into the night. Standing in front of the window as I talk, one hand kneads at my shoulder and neck muscles, fingers digging in as I work. God, what a headache I have from all the hours I spent at the police station listening to Mikey tell his story again and again, listening to the Sap deny-deny-deny, listening to Horvath tell me they were "doing the best they can." Fuck it all! Their best isn't good enough! Justin is out there and I want him found. "So, that's where we stand at the moment," I say to him after I've finished this recitation that starts with Justin walking into the back of Mikey's shop and ends in the here-and-now. I'm not even going to say I'm sorry. What good would it do?  
  
For a long moment, Christian says nothing. I can almost hear the minutes ticking by as we both listen to the phone's wavering static tone. "So, Justin … he's still out there?" he asks finally, and he doesn't sound all that pissed off, which is surprising. Okay, Christian is pretty laid back, but if the Mystik technology ends up with Brogla, that means that a lot of what he's been doing for the last ten years goes into the crapper. Thanks to _me_. So, I'm surprised that he's not reaming me out in true outraged CEO fashion.  
  
"Yes," I say in answer to his question, the one word choked out as I make myself not think about Justin and what he might be going through. "The police are looking, but Sapperstein, the guy who dealt directly with those assholes … he's not being very cooperative."  
  
"Brian? I'm going to put you on hold, okay?" Christian says, his voice suddenly all business.  
  
"Okay." Now what? He wants to call his lawyers and get the suit against me and VanGard filed? Shit. Vance is already livid. Earlier in the night, he ranted so long and so loud I hung up on him. Working my neck right and left until I hear it pop, I begin pacing once again. Do you think I give a fuck about Vance? I don't. If anything happens to Justin—anything—there won't be much I care about anymore. I have to find him. And he has to be all right.  
  
Nearly ten minutes pass before Christian comes back on the line. "Brian? You there?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Listen, I didn't want to say anything until I was sure, but when I gave you that prototype last fall, you had one of the three new ones we'd cooked up with special features."  
  
Oh, fuck. Didn't he hear me when I told him we found the sub-directory function? "Yeah, I know. Remember? I just told you—"  
  
"Brian, shut up and listen to me! God, you are so fucking impatient. Times sure haven't changed!"  
  
"I don't have to—"  
  
"I said, shut up!" He takes a deep breath, waits a heartbeat to see if I'm going to obey, then goes on. "Brian, there's a GPS tracking device on that prototype."  
  
"Fuck!" I pace halfway across the floor in my excitement. "We have to tell the police! How do we track it, how do we—"  
  
"I've got the guy in charge of that on his way to his office in Manhattan even as we speak. But it's close to rush hour, so it's going to take him about forty-five minutes to get there and, oh, maybe another hour to get the thing configured. In the meantime, who should I call to liaise with the police?"  
  
Quickly, I give him Carl's name and number. "Fuck, I can't believe it's got a tracking system on it."  
  
"Yeah, well, we were trying to decide if it was worth the extra expense. Those things are a bitch to set up and they definitely add to the cost, which isn't going to be cheap. I can't believe I never mentioned that to you, although--okay, hell, I can believe it. We were making a lot of stupid mistakes during that phase of the operations, me included. Anyway, if we can get to those son of a bitch creeps while they still have both the Mystik and Justin, we should be in good shape."  
  
Shit, and that's the problem, isn't it? The Mystik might be headed to Brogla by now. "Thanks, Christian," I say, feeling about two feet tall. "I'm … sorry about all this shit."  
  
"Let's just concentrate on getting Justin back, okay? We don't really know how this is all going to shake down. And, believe it or not, I understand you wanting to protect your lover. I've got one of those too, you know. She just also happens to be the mother of my three kids!"  
  
We say our good byes and, yeah, I'm astonished at how well he's taking the whole thing. Shit, I thought he'd blow up, but his main concern seems to be Justin. With a sigh, I call Jennifer and let her know, but we don't stay on the phone long because she's hoping Justin will call, that they'll just let him out somewhere, and take off with the Mystik. Carl calls me a few minutes after that and he sounds exhausted, but very hopeful at the news from Christian about the GPS. All we can do now though, is wait until Christian has everything in place.   
  
Still walking back and forth, I consider Christian's parting words. _I understand you wanting to protect your lover._ I've always been unwilling to put a label on Justin and I, although, yeah, I called him my partner that one time. But "lover"? It's sounds so dykey and sweet—two things I don't do. Yet, ever since that night that Ian showed up, that's what we've been doing, right? Making love. Not that I want to admit that. I don't. Not to anyone, including Justin. Fuck, including _me_. It's still fucking and that's what it'll remain. Yet now, with all that's happened, it's something I'm starting to get a handle on. That ought to scare me to death and would if I wasn't dealing with something so much worse. Justin being kidnapped and held by those thugs sure as shit puts the whole thing into perspective.  
  
Right then, the front door buzzer cuts through the morning stillness. Heart jumping, I move to the intercom. Who the hell is visiting at 6:50 a.m.? "Yeah?"  
  
"Brian? It's Carla."  
  
Shit. I buzz her in and open the door, stepping out so I can listen and make sure she gets in all right. I called her a few hours ago because … well, I don't know why the fuck I did. She's Justin's friend, I guess that's why. The elevator hums and a second later I roll open the door. "Hi."  
  
She's wearing her brown-and-white bus terminal uniform and carrying two cups from a nearby coffee shop. "Hi." She hands me one and I catch a whiff of her perfume as it mixes with the rich coffee aroma. "I figured you'd be up."  
  
"Yeah." I follow her into the loft and shut the door. "You just leave work?"  
  
"I did. Any news?" We sit on the couch and she watches me gravely while I give her the update. "Well, that's good!" she says when I finish and takes a drink from her coffee. "Come on, Brian. We've got to hope this is the beginning of the end and Justin will be home soon."  
  
Fingers wrapped around the warm cup, I sip the coffee, surprised to discover it's a latte, a good one where the dark roast coffee bites my tongue. When did she learn that I drink lattes? The woman is a little frightening. "It's fine as long as Justin is with the Mystik. If he isn't …"  
  
"But we aren't going to think that way."  
  
"Why the hell not?"  
  
"Because we need to remain positive."  
  
"I don't do positive," I say immediately and in a less-than-pleasant voice.  
  
"You don't do a lot of things, but, you know what? It's time that changed."  
  
Here we go again. "And you're going to change it?"  
  
"Me?" She laughs, setting her coffee down on the coffee table, pink fingernails flashing until I realize she's got tiny jewels embedded in them. Shit. "Honey, no way! It's Justin who's changing it. In fact, he's done a fine job of it so far. It just needs to go further."  
  
I hate people like her who look right through the bullshit and see the truth. Of course, I can do that too, but she's a lot gentler … and better at it. "That's what you think he's done?"  
  
Showing lots of teeth, she laughs. "He gave me the—excuse the expression—blow-by-blow account of your relationship one day. Except, of course, for those fourteen months. But even so, I can tell it's had its ups and downs. And he's somehow managed to handle it, despite that."  
  
Staring at her, I compress my lips and say nothing.  
  
Both her eyebrows go up. "Okay. So, those fourteen months are crucial. I thought they might be."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You get nervous whenever they're brought up."  
  
I sip my coffee then set it aside very carefully and with what I hope is a certain casual attitude. I reach for my cigarettes, tapping one out. "Do you mind?"  
  
She waves a hand. "Go right ahead. You're just proving my point."  
  
I light up my thousandth cigarette of the night and raise an eyebrow at her. "Why don't you say what you want to say?"  
  
She just smiles. "Ever hear of emotional intelligence, Brian?"  
  
"Something tells me I'm about to get analyzed."  
  
"No, not really. That'd be rude especially seeing as how I'm sitting in your home." She clasps her hands together, those nails sparkling as she does, and looks up at the ceiling. "I do a lot of reading while I'm on duty, when things are slow, and one of the books I read, it's about emotional intelligence. This guy who wrote the books says emotions are on a hierarchy that starts with your ability to identify and understand your own emotions, and ends with your ability to sustain a relationship."  
  
I wish like hell I had a drink. Can't do it, not when I need my wits about me. "Sounds lesbionic."  
  
"Which is, I believe, the word you use to mean feminine or soft."  
  
I shrug, tapping the cigarette against an ashtray 'til the ash drops. "So, someone like me … your book would label me a dropout."  
  
"No! Oh, no, that's not my point at all." She looks distressed then laughs that gentle laugh she has, and reaches for her coffee. "No, Brian, you're not a dropout. In fact, I think you've been a student and I think Justin has been your teacher."  
  
I want to dispute that, but instead I just give her a look.  
  
"Yeah, I know you know I'm right. He does have a lot of emotional intelligence, doesn't he? The boy is very bright not only in that way, but in general. In fact, I doubt very seriously you'd have stayed with him this long except for the fact that he can match you IQ-for-IQ."  
  
"But not where emotional intelligence is concerned?" I ask her although, really, I see where she's going with this. "I'm the one learning?"  
  
"Is that so bad?" Her brow wrinkles, those brown eyes of hers gleaming as she focuses on me. "I don't know that much about you, but I think maybe your family didn't do a very good job there. Forgive me if I'm wrong."  
  
Again, I shrug, leaning forward to crush out my cigarette in the ashtray.  
  
Suddenly, she sets down her coffee and leans toward me. Her bejeweled fingers covers mine and though I want to, I don't pull away from her touch. "But you're _learning_ ," she says in a voice that's dropped. "Brian, he's teaching you how to do it, by example. Not that our Justin is perfect because God knows none of us are. He's done some foolish things and we both know it. But he's teaching you how to _feel_ and even though it's something that makes you very uncomfortable and something you claim you hate, something you don't want or need or care about, it's working. I look at you and that's what I see. You're learning to let in the love that boy has for you, a love that's like a force of nature it's so damn powerful, but a _good_ force, like a summer thunderstorm."  
  
I have to smile at the idea of Justin being a thunderstorm. He sure comes across that way sometimes.   
  
"You know what? You have a beautiful smile, one I'd like to see more of. I don't think anyone, though, especially Justin, expects you to become a different person. I mean, you wouldn't be _you_ if you did. But little moments like this, that's how you'll change—edging just a bit closer to being the person you were meant to be."  
  
"You should've been a fuckin' psychologist," I say and slide my hand out from under hers, her nails grazing my skin as I do. Somehow, though I don't plan it, another smile makes it to my lips.  
  
"I have enough on my hands tending to eight kids."  
  
"I thought you only had six children."  
  
"Six of my own, two foster kids. Did I ever tell you my husband's a plumber? Brian, the man makes a killing! It's unbelievable how much money there is in the plumbing business. And, now, well three of my six are out on their own, although one's in college but I still see him every time he runs out of money or needs clean underwear. Anyway, I decided maybe I could help some other kids … you know, the ones who don't have such a good family life. That's why my hours at the bus terminal have gradually been cut back."  
  
And right then, I understand why she's been able to perceive me the way she has. _I_ was one of those kids. She knows it. I know it. The woman has me pegged and she's talked to me, what? A few hours at the most. "I still think you're in the wrong profession," I manage to mumble. Rubbing the back of my neck, I stare at the floor. Damn, I hate feeling so exposed, although, I think she's trying to make me feel good, to tell me I'm growing. Shit! I hate that word. I'm not a fucking vegetable. Besides, all this "progress" could come to a disastrous halt, couldn't it? Even if we do locate Justin and he's fine. "Those fourteen months …" I hear myself saying long before I realize the words are coming. "There's stuff in there that could ruin everything."  
  
Then, in an unbelievable lesbionic/feminine/soft way, I tell her what happened. About Ian and flowers and romance and my stubbornness and Justin's yearning to hear those three words I refuse to say. It just all comes out and, of course, I can blame the late hour and the anxiety if I want to, but maybe, just maybe, it feels good to share this with someone. "Share"? Did I just use the word "share" in a sentence about feelings? Fuck. I am doomed.  
  
"So once he has his memories back, you're afraid he'll turn on you?" Carla says as soon as I finish, those lines in her forehead back again. "Because he has this tendency to be impulsive and over-excitable … what did you call it? He 'queens' a lot?" She smiles. "I love that word."  
  
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't love it if you were ever on the receiving end."  
  
"So now we get to Justin's less-than-stellar qualities and one of them is that he's hot-headed and stubborn." She pauses and I'm sure it's for effect. "Just like you."  
  
Bingo. "Not a good combination."  
  
"Oh, couples always have flashpoints between them, I think. Take Quinton and me. We can talk politics and religion and sex—no problem. But if I find he's messed up the household finances, which he manages to do at least once a month despite the fact that the man runs his own business, well, honey, we're off and running. The kids get up and leave the room because they know it won't be pretty."  
  
"Yet, you remain married."  
  
"Because one of us usually remembers that we need to behave like adults."  
  
Despite myself, I frown. " _You_."  
  
"Oh, hell, no! It's not always me! You have the wrong idea if you think I'm some paragon of virtue who calmly analyzes and then referees our little fights." She's shaking her pink-tipped finger at me as she says the words. "It's as much him as me. It's just … I think the point is, it has to be _someone_. It sounds to me like the two of you got locked into a battle and neither one was willing to be the adult."  
  
"How was I to—"  
  
"By compromising. My goodness, Brian. I mean, let's be serious here. In hindsight, what was more important: keeping Justin with you or maintaining your cherished beliefs about yourself--that you're hard-hearted, independent, won't let anyone in? Look at the quality of your life and tell me which brings more happiness. Those beliefs … they don't keep you warm at night, they don't listen when you need to talk, they don't do much of anything except keep up some kind of exterior you probably no longer need."  
  
"No longer need?" I ask and my voice has risen. "What the fuck does that mean?"  
  
"I mean, when we're children, we set up ways to protect ourselves. I guess they're called coping mechanisms, but they're barriers we erect to keep out the pain. Come on, Brian, you're a smart man. You know that."  
  
Again, I'm back to staring, wondering why the hell I don't tell her to shut up.  
  
"So now you're an adult, you're successful, good-looking, intelligent—you've proven that you count, to yourself and to others. So when you find someone, a once-in-a-lifetime moment where you connect with another human being, do you let that get away from you because it threatens those long-held behaviors, which you no longer need?"  
  
Talk about a force of nature. Carla is just that. Maybe that's why she and Justin get along so well. But, shit, she's got a point even though I don't like to admit it. Stubbornness and pride runs in the Kinney family. I know that, right? Look at my mother, carrying around this image of herself as a virtuous churchwoman whose only desire is to please God. The truth, that's she's a vicious drunk who hates just about everyone, is a little harder to swallow … so she doesn't. Fuck! Am I doing the same thing? No way. That can't be what Carla is saying because I am not going to fucking believe I've turned out just like my for-shit mother … or Jack, for that matter, who knew a good delusion whenever he saw one. Shit, this whole conversation sucks and it's so inappropriate right now anyway what with Justin missing and everything being so tense. I'm just going to have to shut her down, to tell her to mind her own fucking business because—  
  
The telephone rings.   
  
Heart in my throat, I jump up to answer it.  
  
_Please_ , I'm thinking as I do. _Please._  
  
I grab it off the cradle.


	24. Twenty-Four

**Twenty-Four: Tuesday, January 20–Morning**

The quiet awakens me.   
  
I'd been dozing for several hours, caught in an uneasy, troubled sleep that wasn't restful or refreshing, a sleep filled with garish nightmares that kept jerking me awake. At least once, when I awoke, I panicked at finding myself so tightly bound, blind, and helpless. When that happened, one of my PTSD flashback episodes hit me full force. Shivering, shaking, and screaming, I went through the whole thing although no one saw me or heard me thanks to the fuckin' duct tape and gag. That left me even more exhausted and I slumped into another fitful sleep.  
  
Now, when I realize how still everything is, I strain to hear anything coming from the other room. Maybe they're sleeping? Sitting quietly? Talking together in low tones? But after listening for a while to what I can only describe as a very intense silence, I become convinced that I'm alone. Shit. They left, which means it must be after 8:00 a.m. They left and didn't bother saying goodbye. How mean of them, but I guess you shouldn't expect much from people who kidnap you and tie you to a chair. During the whole time I've been here, Jaws came in just once, offered me a little water, and even took me for a bathroom break. Other than that, I'm obviously expendable, less-than-human, nothing but a cipher. Fuck them. Fuck anyone who puts a greater value on an electronic device than a human being, but the fact that they do … is that some great revelation to me? Sadly, no.   
  
By now, my hands, my arms, even my legs are numb, and a peculiar kind of numbness, too, that shoots an electric jolt of pain throughout my limbs occasionally as if to remind me that I'm still alive. My mouth and throat are parched and I need water. I'm uncomfortable, but, if it's going to be two days or longer before those scumbags let the police know where I am, then I'll be looking back on this part of the ordeal as the "good times" when I wasn't starving or so dehydrated that delirium had set in. Not a great prospect, but, fuck, what can I do except hope for the best? I've tried repeatedly to move, to twist my hands free, to loosen the hold on my legs, but nothing's working and it only makes me hurt more and feel increasingly desperate.  
  
One thing I've realized: I have to do something to get my mind off this whole mess because that's about all I _can_ do. It's in my head now, a mind game, so if I can psych myself into remaining calm, into not thinking about the hunger or the thirst or the pain, I have a chance of surviving. And that's what I'm going to do: survive. I need to, right? For Brian's sake. That's what I told myself earlier. Brian. I have to survive for _Brian_.  
  
Right then, right at the very instant when his name echoes in my head, right when I'm picturing him in my mind in all his beautiful glory, right at that moment, the truth settles on me like a great bird of prey landing with a sudden thump on my shoulder.  
  
Just like that, I _remember_.   
  
Fuck! It's all there like someone downloaded a huge, zipped file and immediately opened that fucker so that all the data came streaming out. All of it! The last fourteen months pour into my brain in glorious-but-confusing Technicolor, one jumbled memory after another suddenly returning to me, slotting itself into place, a confusion of images, thoughts, tastes, textures, all of it.   
  
_I went snowboarding in Vermont._ By myself? Yes! Sleeping alone in a big, fluffy bed that smelled like flowers, everything outside vast and white and interminable. But, yeah, alone because Brian had to go to Chicago and, at the last moment, couldn't come with me. Shit, he was horrible about it too, not telling me what had happened or anything. So, I went on the trip by myself just to spite him, miserable the whole time, and didn't have any fun at all.  
  
Another image thuds into place: the dead kid. _I saw him_ right after Debbie found him. God, it was terrible. A kid my age, just lying there, white and cold and frozen-looking. Poor Deb, so freaked out, so upset because no one seem affected by it the way she was. And it all happened not too long ago either because that prick, Stockwell, is running for mayor and Debbie blames him for all of it.  
  
_I met Joan Kinney_. Shit! I remember that too. After Brian took Ted's Viagra one day, he and I were fucking like a couple of rabbits. That's when she showed up. She had a stupid cake with her, for Brian—like he'd ever eat something that carb-loaded—a yummy chocolate cake I could smell even from the bedroom. Oh, hell, and I walked in on them while they were talking probably looking well fucked. Which kind of gave away Brian's big homo secret, at least if her shocked expression was any indication. How could I have forgotten that? Not that it upset Brian because he doesn't give a shit about his mother's opinion, but still …  
  
And _I worked for the Sap_! One night I came home and danced on the coffee table for Brian just as I'd earlier auditioned for that fuckin' sleaze. If I could smile, I would because I remember the little spanking scene we got into— _two_ actually, one before Linds and Mel busted in, one after they left. Wow, was that ever hot—the second one, I mean. Now that's a memory I'm glad I recovered. So, _of course_ I wanted to avoid the Sap when I saw him that day on Liberty. I hated his fucking guts. Not even Brian knows how he tried to make me his fuck-toy-of-the-night when I went to his creepy after-hours party. Shit, it was sheer luck that I escaped without being raped. He drugged me and was about to make me the center attraction when I took my best shot and managed to get away from him. Yuck. _That_ memory could've stayed forgotten.  
  
_The White Party_. Okay, they talked about that at the family dinner, but the part I remember now is that Debbie practically put me in a headlock to make me stay for Mel and Linds wedding rather than go with Brian. And, shit! Ben and Brian and the White Party. He _fucked_ Ben at the White Party a few years ago and I guessed it! Wow, and I let that slip so that Michael found out. Michael tried to pretend it didn't bother him, but he wasn't happy when he learned that, not at all.  
  
Speaking of Michael, didn't he say something to me one day, something that upset me, something about _Brian and the zucchini man_? Oh, shit! I came home with Daph and found Brian fucking that guy in the living room. The next day, Michael saw I was pissed at Brian and followed me out of the diner to ask why. What did he say? Something about the only reason I lived with Brian was because I'd been hit on the head? He can be such a fucker, throwing out seemingly innocent lines that have the impact of a grenade. So I asked Brian about what Michael said and when he wouldn't answer, I queened on him so seriously I ended up over at Debbie's. Damn, what an idiot I was about that shit. Brian _told_ me when I first started living with him that it was only until I got better so why'd I suddenly get so upset? But we worked that out too and we …  
  
I moan as the memory strikes me. We established the _rules_. Fuck. The rules—rules I broke right and left and with truly breathtaking abandon. That was so fuckin' unfair especially considering the fact that Brian _kept_ the rules. I kissed other men, I got phone numbers and names, I fucked guys more than once, I … I lied to Brian and that was so fucked up, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. What the hell was going on with me? I loved Brian, I had him in my life, yet … Oh, God, and I lied to Brian about Ethan.  
  
_Ethan!_   
  
Jerking in my seat as the recollection hits, I groan, wanting to get away from the sudden rush of memories that assault me, memories that bring with them intense emotions I don't want to face. I _lied_ to Brian about Ethan and he figured it out. Oh, God, that was horrible! The guilt, the fear, the sadness—it all comes back to me in a chaotic muddle of feelings. Breathing too hard, I twist my head, wanting to shake the emotions away. One night, when I came back from fucking Ethan, Brian confronted me. Of course, he didn't _talk_ to me, but did it in his own way, forcing kisses on me until I became a willing participant in his little mind game. Soon, I was so incredibly turned on that when he pushed me to the floor, worked on my mouth for another long moment, and then stopped, I _begged_ him to continue. But, fuck, no, he left me there, left me feeling like a piece of shit too insignificant to even touch. God, I was so ashamed that night, so humiliated, so angry with myself for what I'd done not to mention furious with Brian for hurting me that way … even if I did deserve it.  
  
So, what did I do? How did I go about repairing that damage? Fuck. I didn't. Instead, I _left_ Brian. After everything that happened, that's how I handled it. By leaving him. At Babylon, in front of everyone he knew and loved, when he'd thrown a huge party to celebrate the first issue of Rage. _The Rage party_! No wonder everyone got so quiet at Deb's that night. What a fucked up thing, leaving with Ethan that way. God, how I must've hurt Brian. No wonder he looked so sad on Christmas day. It was because of _me_ , because of the terrible memories I stirred when I came back into his life.  
  
Then Ethan cheated on me and lied about it after telling me over and over again I was the only one. Fucker! His little trick from Harrisburg turned up unexpectedly at our door because he wanted to see the great artist again. After he left, as I tore apart the roses his new _boyfriend_ had brought, we had it out. He kept trying to tell me how horrible Brian had been, that I ought to be used to someone being unfaithful. That's when I told him that Brian might've done a lot of things to me, but he never lied, he never told me anything other than the—  
  
My body stiffens and in an instant I'm once more trying to free myself. God! Brian lied to me too—lied about all of it! He lied about _everything_ from the moment he found me on Collins until the last time I saw him yesterday morning. I hadn't lived with him for months and months. No, I lived with Ethan and when I walked out on him that day, I had nowhere to go. That's why I needed the Rage money from Michael—I had to find a place to stay.   
  
Tears burn my eyes as the enormity of what's happened hits. _Brian lied_. And he had other people helping him too because somehow they had to get all my stuff from Ethan's and put it in the loft before I returned from the ER. No wonder so many things seemed out of place. God, he lied to me, pretending we still lived together, that we'd never been apart. And, oh, shit, he _fucked_ me! We weren't together, we weren't a couple, we were barely even friends yet he pretended like we were, he took fuckin' advantage of me and fucked me repeatedly. Shit, shit, shit!  
  
A growl deep in my throat, I twist again, the tears sopped up by the blindfold, barely able to breathe as this new revelation hits me like a blow to the stomach. Motherfuckin' piece of shit! He told me to trust him and all the time he lied to me! He fucking took the one thing I thought I could trust about him—his honesty—and he used it against me in order to … in order to what?  
  
Did he pity me? Is that why he did it? Poor amnesic Justin, hit on the head _again_. Have to do my part to help the kid because if I don't, who the hell is going to aid him in his time of need? Not too shabby, though, since I get to _fuck_ him while I play at being his lover.   
  
Hissing through the gag, I try to breathe, furious, hyperventilating, the angry thoughts colliding with the images from our recent sexual encounters until I'm dizzy at the emotions washing over me. I hate him! I fucking hate him! If I ever get out of this, I'm going to go right up into his face and tell him to go to fucking hell. I can see the image in my head, his surprised expression morphing briefly into anger before he slaps on that indifference that's his trademark. But I'll know better, I'll know that I hurt him like he's hurt me. I never, ever want to see him again, not in a million years. This is it. We are done. The end. The final and absolute end of anything between he and I. There might've been a chance at one time. It'd even seemed to me that, every time we met, there was a vibe between us—before all of this happened. But fuck it all! I'm taking myself out of his life and out of his freakin' community too. I don't care what Linds, Mel, Deb, any of them say this time. I'm severing all ties because I don't ever want to have to see his face again as long as I live. I hate him, I fuckin' hate him.  
  
And we're done.  
  
We are _done_.


	25. Twenty-Five

**Twenty-Five: Tuesday, January 20–Early evening**

Exploding through the glass doors of Antations, Inc, the fucking _number two_ ad agency in fucking Pittsburgh, I frighten the receptionist so much she jumps up from behind her desk, hands flying likes she wants to raise them in surrender, eyes deer-in-a-headlight scared. "Where's Mattera?" I ask her in a voice that'll brook no arguments, listening as Carl, and several police officers file in behind me.  
  
Terrified, the girl points toward a set of double-doors.  
  
Jerking to my left, I give Carl a look then go the few feet to the conference room doors and, using both hands, slam them open.  
  
Inside, several men are huddled around a huge polished conference table, laptops, folders, pens, and paper everywhere, their cozy little group instantly torn apart by my intrusion. Mattera is at the head of the table and it only takes me seconds to get a hold of his jacket and pull him out of his big, plush leather chair. "Guess what, Darryl?" I speak right in his face, far too close for comfort, my voice a dangerous growl. "The jig is up."  
  
"Easy, Brian," Carl warns from behind, but I notice he makes no move to intervene as he and the police stand in front of the only exit.  
  
"What the hell do you want, Kinney? Get your fucking hands off me!" Mattera says, his soft, pudgy fingers atop mine, trying to pull himself free. But he's a small, unimpressive man with lots of curly, graying hair and a disgusting mole on his chin—the kind of man who belongs in prison, which is where he'll soon be—so he doesn't have a fucking chance against me.  
  
"Clayton Dowler?" I tighten my grip on his lapels and give him a fierce shake. "Your little lapdog, the one you sent to collect the Mystik from those two thugs? The one who was going to deliver it to Brogla, tied with a red ribbon, and signed, "Love, Darryl"? We've traced him to you, you son of a bitch bastard. Thanks to the GPS on the Mystik, we caught Dowler and his two little friends on the 60, halfway to the airport. You must be slipping in your old age, Darryl, because _you_ paid for that rental car with your own personal MasterCard. Now, he and his goons are sitting in jail. I'm thinking he's going to want to tell us _everything_ about this little conspiracy."  
  
Shit, Darryl Mattera and Antations are involved in this scheme? Am I surprised? Money moves mountains and in this case, it's motivated some kind of fucked up plan to make Antations the number one ad agency in Pittsburgh, crushing VanGard, and making millions for this asshole in the process. If the Mystik had reached Brogla, it would've killed our deal with Tectrus, and left us with a rotten reputation, which was obviously the icing on the cake for dear Darryl. It's common knowledge that Vance pissed off Mattera when he took control of the Ryder Agency and began to steal clients from Antations right and left. In the first six months, we must've taken ten of their clients, big name clients too, and Darryl wasn't shy about calling Vance and me all kinds of unpleasant names. But, shit! That he'd sink to _this_ level? Yeah, he would.  
  
"You don't have anything on me," Mattera says just then, still trying to twist out of my grip, "except that I have some kind of an association with Clayton Dowler, which isn't against the law and doesn't prove anything. He could be involved in all kinds of illegal activities I know nothing about. He's not even an employee of Antations." He purses his lips, looking smug. "Besides, if you haven't gotten anything out of him by now, what makes you think he'll tell you what you want to know?"  
  
"You've covered all your bases nicely, haven't you, you fucking asshole?" I say in a harsh voice. "But I have an idea your story isn't going to last long. Trying to steal someone's technology is one thing. Murder, quite another."  
  
"Murder?" Someone sounds surprised a few chairs down from where I'm standing. Pushing Mattera into his seat, I check out the other people in the room. Maybe another man will be more—   
  
That's when I see him, all decked out in an ugly gray three-piece suit, looking especially smarmy.  
  
Kip Thomas.  
  
"What the fuck!" Lunging at him, I'm not surprised when the little shit ducks out of his chair and tries to escape.  
  
"Get away from me! Don't let him touch me!" he said in a shrill voice as he scuttles backwards.  
  
"You!" Two more steps and I grab him roughly by the arms, jerking him toward me, overwhelmed by the disgusting smell of his cheap, musky aftershave.   
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
"Something tells me this isn't a coincidence."  
  
A sneer darkens his face. "Yeah, just like when you sent your little twink to fuck with me."  
  
"Little twink?"  
  
"Don't act like you're clueless, Kinney! I know you sent that blond kid to mess with me and then claim he was underage so I'd be forced to drop the suit." He's yelling by now, the spit flying so that I push him back in disgust, but don't release him. "You thought you were so fucking smart when you did that, but I showed you, didn't I? I fucking got the last laugh!"  
  
Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's talking about Justin and I have a very uneasy, sickening feeling. Justin had something to do with this piece of shit dropping that absurd sexual harassment suit against me two years ago? I can't believe it, although, wait. Yeah, sure I can. Don't I know Justin better than that? The little idiot is always ready to leap to the rescue at a moment's notice. He's impulsive and fucking reckless, that's what he is. "Tell me what he did," I say with sudden urgency, knowing that every minute we waste, Justin is off somewhere, suffering. I shove Kip back against the wall so that he grunts in pain. "And give me the abbreviated version."  
  
"You can't force me—"  
  
I glance at the cops. "Can't I? Do you see them making any move to stop me? Now spill it!"  
  
Then he tells me how he met Justin in Woody's one night. Justin, he says, came onto him, and acted interested, like he thought Kip was hot. Later, Justin approached him again, and they ended up going back to Kip's apartment. Shit! I can't believe he went back to _anyone's_ apartment much less Kip's. Not that Justin couldn't kick his ass if he needed to, but how many times have I told him to _never_ go anywhere with _anyone_? The surprising end to their encounter was that Justin told Kip he was only seventeen. He threatened to tell his father who'd already, allegedly, put one such "molester" in jail. God, the kid has such balls. And he's not afraid to jump in when everyone else is standing around with their thumb up their ass. That's one of the things I love about him—he's such a fighter.  
  
As Kip finishes his tale, though, something dawns on me: if what this piece of shit claims is true, _I'm_ the one responsible for everything that's happen here, especially to Justin. It's looking more and more like Kip's personal vendetta—one fueled first and foremost by the way I rejected his promotion at Ryder—was the catalyst for all of this. Something Darryl Mattera was obviously all-too-happy to use to his own advantage. Shit. Every time Justin gets hurt, it's me—it's always me. He keeps telling me _he's_ the one responsible, but that just isn't true. Now he's tied up somewhere and no one can find him. He's tied up, alone, frightened, and _I'm_ to blame. When one of those thugs was being interrogated back at the police department he said Justin's been tied up for over twenty-four hours, with only a few sips of water, so he's thirsty, tired, and probably freaking out. _Motherfucker_. I did it to him, didn't I? Couldn't keep it in my pants at work, of all places, and this is the result? Okay, the creep wanted me—that much I remember. Both times he let me know what he wanted. And he did it for _one_ reason: so he could get ahead in the business. But, fuck, did I resist him? He's not that good-looking, and he gave lousy head, yet there I was, dipping my hand into that second-rate cookie jar simply because he offered it to me. And it was _Justin_ who helped me escape from what could've been a career-ending lawsuit that might've wiped me out financially. God. It's true, isn't it? All of _that_ led to all of this. And it's all on me. I've done it. If we can't find Justin, I might even be the one responsible for his … no, wait. Can't go there. No. Not even going to consider that possibility. He's okay. He has to be okay. And I am very close to pounding some heads if I don't get an answer soon.  
  
"Newsflash, you motherfuckin' piece of shit," I say to Kip Thomas when he finishes the story, my teeth bared as I lean toward him, my fingers tangled in the prickly fabric of his sleazy suit. "You'll be an accessory to murder if anything happens to Justin. Do you hear me? _Murder_." I look around at the other men who watch us. "All of you will."  
  
Kip's already sallow complexion goes a sickly shade of green. "But we didn't—"  
  
"The young man they kidnapped is tied up somewhere, but we don't have a clue where," I say, overriding Kip as I raise my voice and speak to the other men watching me so intently. "If we don't find him, he could die. So, if you know the address of where they took him, and want to save yourself, the first one to speak up is going to get the DA's best deal." I give Carl a hard look. "Is that right?"  
  
Carl nods. "That's right."  
  
"It's 633 East Cartland, just off Strathmore," Kip says before anyone else can open their mouth, his teeth all but chattering as he says the words. "Nothing was supposed to happen to him. Those guys fucked up. They—"  
  
"Thank you, motherfucker," I murmur as I pull him away from the wall by his shirtfront. Arm shooting back and rushing forward with lightning speed, my fist connects with his jaw. A brief "hmpf!" of surprise escapes him, his eyes go cockeyed, and then Kip crumples to the floor, unconscious. "Come on," I say to Carl as I'm heading for the door. "Now!"


	26. Twenty-Six

**Twenty-Six: Tuesday, January 20-6:31 p.m.**

I'm calmer … a lot calmer. That's what happens when you've been tied up for over twenty-four hours. I'm calmer, in pain, and starting to hallucinate. At least, I think that's what's happening. Maybe it's just vivid dreams, but, awake or asleep, I'm seeing things in my head that are a little weird. Strange lights, shapes that look like riotously colored children's blocks, even a few bizarre insect-like things. Yeah, it's freaking me out, but what am I gonna do? It's only going to get worse.  
  
I'm also feeling more philosophical and less hostile, especially toward Brian. And my mom too. I guess they did what they had to do. Maybe it was like one of those moral questions. You know, if you had to kill one person to save ten thousand, would you do it and would it be right if you did? So, I guess they felt they had to lie to me because otherwise I'd flip out or get sicker or something. Shit, I'm so tired of being the sick one, the victim, the person everyone has to care for. But I guess I can't blame them although … Brian lying to me. That hurts, it really hurts. I never thought he'd do something like that. He's always been honest with me and never treated me like a kid by talking down to me or telling me some phony shit because I wasn't "old enough" for the truth.   
  
I don't know, it's hard to describe how I feel. He and I have had such an incredible time together since Christmas. In our three years, I don't think we've ever had that kind of a sustained period when we behaved like real lovers and were close to one another on so many levels. I thought … back before I remembered all this shit, I thought we had a real future, as a couple, a future even he acknowledged. True, he hadn't been bringing me heart-shaped boxes of candy or setting up picnics on the floor, but he'd been _tender_. There'd been a look in his eyes, one I've rarely seen, a look that spoke volumes. His voice had been different, his touch more gentle. Okay, yeah, I know, I'd been sick, so he had to be nice, but still ... It wasn't like before, when he and I seemed to struggle all the time, when I wanted something he seemed unwilling to give.  
  
Since I have so much time on my hands, I've tried to imagine what Brian went through during everything that's happened, to get inside his head and maybe see it from his point of view. He had to deal with a different Justin, a Justin who thought he was fourteen months younger, a Justin who lived in a world that still included him. And that happened after a number of months when he'd lived _without_ me, when he would've been used to that, would've accepted it, and moved on. So, it must've been hard. Shit, I _know_ it was hard, I saw that on his face. Suddenly he was supposed to be my lover and yet he still had feelings about what happened between us, feelings he'd never dealt with. It's lucky he's so strong. I don't know if I could've done the same thing in his place. Why'd he do it, though? Why'd he let himself get into such a gut-wrenching position? He must've known he risked being annihilated when my memory returned, when I got pissed at what he'd done, when I rejected him _again_. Yet, he did it anyway. Because of me? Because he cares for me?   
  
How can he care for me, though, and still lie? The two don't go together. Then I think about my mother, remembering that she'd taken part in the whole deception. Fuck, she loves me. I know that and there's no way I can question it. Yet, she lied. Somehow, that's all right. I mean, I'm pissed, but not as much as I am with Brian. Nor do I have any plans to never speak to her again should I survive this ordeal. So, why am I so pissed at Brian? Just because he lied? Oh, and let's not forget, Debbie, Vic, Michael, Emmett, Ted, Linds, Mel—they all lied too. God, I hate that! They lied and probably will say they did it because they care about me. But there I was all happy and clueless, enjoying myself at the family dinner, and meanwhile, maybe they were snickering behind their hands because they knew it was all a big, fat, hideous lie! That's what's been going on for an entire, freakin' month!  
  
Shit. Right then, something becomes abundantly clear: my pride's involved. That's one thing about being tied up and hallucinating, not to mention being in fear of your life. It makes everything very straightforward. So, here I am, a big drama queen, upset because I didn't know something everyone else knew. Great. It looks like the truth is that anytime _I_ look bad, even if it's for a good reason, then I have the right to be pissed off. As much as I get on Brian for wanting to be in control all the time, maybe I want to be in control too.   
  
Still, if I ever get out of here, I'm moving out of the loft. I can't help how I feel. Brian lied. He took advantage of me although … I guess I encouraged it because I sure as hell wanted to fuck him. He was the reluctant one, at least when we first started. And, shit, I enjoyed every minute of it too so I'm not some tragic little victim of a sexual assault. But, I don't know, it still seems like he had no right and he shouldn't have done it. Even if I couldn't get him to say he loved me, I wanted his respect. And I sure as shit haven't had it. Love, respect, none of it. Certainly not love. Right?   
  
All around me, as far as my straining ears can hear, it's quiet, silent, almost hushed, no outside noises penetrating inside these walls. No car motors or kids shouting or snow blowers. Nothing. It seems almost preternatural and in that instant, it has my attention. I'm wondering why in the hell it would be that way, why nothing from the outside would come to my ears, why I'd be deprived of the tiniest, faintest sound—   
  
Right then, everything explodes.   
  
A huge, crashing noise rocks the place. People are shouting things like, "Clear!" and "Check in there!" and, yes, yes, yes, they're shouting, "Justin!" I hear running feet, doors banging open, and, at a distance, the sound of sirens, and car doors slamming in rapid succession. God, yes! They found me! Fuck, they've found me!  
  
A door bursts open with such force it hits the wall. "Here!" someone yells so loudly I flinch. "Carl, he's here!"  
  
Carl! It's Detective Horvath!   
  
A second later, heavy footsteps, and a murmured, "Shit!" Then his hand is on my shoulder, blunt fingers gently squeezing. "Justin? It's Carl Horvath," he says in a low, gruff tone like he's breathing too hard. "I'll have you out of that in just a second." I can hear other footsteps and sense several people are in the room. "Get the paramedics up here," Carl says in a voice not to be disobeyed. "And water, get me some water for him."   
  
Detective Horvath is working on the blindfold. "Oh," he says to someone as he does, like it's an afterthought, "and let Kinney come into the house before he slugs someone."  
  
Kinney? Shit, Brian is here and the thought makes me … makes me, I don't know what. Everything's a huge mess of emotions and sensations and I suddenly don't know what to feel about _anything_. I'm gonna tell him to get lost, right? That I know everything and he's lied to me and I don't want anything to do with him. Right? Yet, that's not what I'm feeling. Or it's not _all_ I'm feeling because, to be honest, I also want to see him. Just like I want to see the sky and the stars and my stupid sister's face, I want to see Brian. Because I'm alive, I'm fuckin' alive!  
  
"Justin, close your eyes. The light is going to seem really bright," Carl says just then, and the blindfold falls away. He has a hand over my eyes just in case. "Okay, keep it like that. Give yourself a moment." He works on the gag, untying something then tugging on it and it's gone too.  
  
"Justin!" I hear, a voice still far away, but getting closer, a voice accompanied by frantic footsteps, a voice that makes me jerk—in anger, anticipation, anguish? I don't know. I'm all over the place, confused, and fuckin' freaked out as Brian calls once more. "Justin!"  
  
I open my eyes and I'm rewarded by a stab of pain that goes right through me like a light-saber just sliced into my retina. Groaning, I blink, trying to clear my eyes, seeing little more than blurred light, when Brian rushes into the room.  
  
"Easy there, Brian," Horvath says, amusement in his voice. "I need to get this duct tape off him and try to preserve any fingerprints while I'm doing it. We want to make sure those scumbags end up in jail for a long, long time."  
  
Again, I blink. Brian is a hazy image in the center of bright light that must be coming from the other room.  
  
"Here," another voice says.  
  
"I'll take that." Brian comes closer. Horvath is crouched in front of me, sawing at the duct tape around my ankles with a knife or something, which, I'm assuming, is holding Brian back. "Can you see?" he asks and I detect the gravel-voiced note of anxiety. Then I hear a plastic sound—a cap being unscrewed.  
  
Shit, I don't know how to behave! Just hearing his voice, I want to cry, I want to reach for him and hug him and shout to him that I'm alive, but instead, I just shake my head. "It's all blurry," I say, surprised at the hoarseness in my own voice.  
  
"Okay." Brian's voice drops to almost nothing, like he's lost it. "I've got water. I'm going to put it to your mouth, all right?"  
  
I nod. His fingertips stroke my chin and it's all I can do to keep myself from pushing into that caress. Tipping back my head slightly, I feel the threads of the bottle touch my lips. Taking several grateful swallows, the cold liquid is the best thing I've ever tasted, cool and invigorating against my parched mouth and throat. I can't restrain a deep sigh. "Thanks."  
  
"Okay." Horvath stands up and I see his indistinct, brown-suited shape. "Now let's get your arms loose. Where the hell are those paramedics?" he said as he goes to the back of the chair and begins to cut the tape around my wrists.  
  
Brian kneels in front of me and as I blink more, his face slowly comes into focus. He feeds me water, and I use that as my excuse not to say anything. Feeling is quickening through my numb legs and it hurts like hell, but it also feels good to know I've got legs, that there's still blood rushing through them, that I'm alive. As the dimness recedes, and I can make out Brian, I realize I'm seeing the same thing there, in his face: _life_ in all its glorious, daunting beauty. He looks terrified: his eyes a shimmering, fear-filled green, the area around the pupils glinting with gold; his beautiful lips compressed in a taut line; his normally bronze skin pale and drawn. And I know the look is because of me, but even more important, it's _for_ me. He loves me. It thumps down on me just like the memories did, earlier. There's no other explanation and it'd be absurd to look for one. _He loves me_. That's why he looks so scared. That's why he can't hide behind his normal insouciance. That's why there's moisture underneath his eyes. Tears? Real tears, right in front of the police? For me. Because he loves me and he can't hide the horror he felt at the idea of losing me.  
  
It's so simple. Amazingly simple. I know that—I've known it all along. And yet here I am about to blast it all to hell because … because what? He tried to protect me? He laid his feelings on the line knowing I'd more than likely stomp on them as soon as I got my memory back because, yeah, I _am_ such a drama queen, I am young, I am impulsive. God, he was brave, doing that. So fucking brave. And he did it because he _loves_ me. That's the basic truth here, isn't it? It's hitting me now full force and I can't deny it.  
  
"Finally!" Carl says as the duct tape is removed. "How're your arms?"  
  
With a groan, I swing them, flexing my hands. "Kind of numb."  
  
"Shit." Brian sets the water aside and, like it's his personal responsibility to care for every aspect of my well being, he begins to gently rub my arms, trying to restore circulation. "Fuck, Carl—where's the paramedics? He needs—"  
  
"I'll go check." Detective Horvath huffs to his feet and leaves the room.  
  
"Is that better?" Brian asks as he continues to rub my arms and hands, his strong fingers kneading. "You okay? Shit, stupid question." Still crouched in front of me, he's frowning, his face open and vulnerable in a way that breaks my heart, that makes my breath hitch, that fuckin' makes me crazy. "Of course you're not okay. Who'd fucking be okay if they spent more than a day tied up like a fuckin'—"  
  
I launch myself at him and fall into his arms, mine snaking around his neck so tightly it's a wonder I don't strangle him. "I'm so glad to see you," I manage to whisper shakily against his neck, and then I'm hanging on for dear life, struggling not to cry as I feather kisses to his mouth. Fuck it. Just fuck it all! I love him. That's all I fuckin' know. I _love_ him and he loves me. Why do I have to make everything so complicated when it's so fuckin' simple?  
  
He's trembling as he guides our lips together, his covering mine in a kiss that's somehow both gentle and demanding, like he needs to make sure I'm really alive. "God," he breathes in between kisses, his warm, strong hands roaming over my body. "God!"  
  
"It's okay," I say every time we break, moaning when his moist breath washes over my face. "It's really okay." And, as I reassure him like that, I recognize the choice I've made without even realizing it: I'm _not_ going to tell him. No, not now, not at this instant when we're both so fuckin' emotional and stirred up and out of our minds. Because I know, one way or another, he's going to blame himself. He'll say it's his fault, that he should've stayed with me in the loft 24/7, that he should've returned the Mystik as soon as he got it back, and on and on. Then he'll say maybe I'm better off without him and get into all that shit again. God, it was such garbage then and it still is. So, I need to think this through, to know how I'm going to say it. Later. I'll tell him later. Pulling back, I kiss his cheeks and nose. "I never want to do that again."  
  
He's brushing back my hair, paying no attention to the two paramedics who've just trooped into the room. "I think you've exceeded your quota for nasty things that can happen to one person," he says and I can tell he's fighting to keep it light, to not be the basket case he clearly is. The tips of his fingertips brush my lips and he's staring at me like he has to record every single feature.  
  
I was going to crush him. Stomp on him so hard he'd never recover. Why? Because he's not perfect. He's flawed. He's "difficult," which several people have told me, a sober warning about being involved with Brian Kinney. Okay, so he's difficult. I am too. Maybe I'm younger and don't have as much "darkness" in me, but I think I've proven I'm more than a match for him in most ways. And I think it might be time for both of us to grow up. "Let's hope that's the case," I say to him as the first paramedic, a determined looking female, brushes past Brian and squats at my left side.  
  
As I take my first look around this dusty, oppressive room piled with broken furniture and dirty boxes, I want to get away from the place that's been my prison. When I try to stand, though, my legs aren't cooperating and the paramedics make me sit still. Brian holds onto me while they take my blood pressure (which is high), ask questions, look in my eyes, and do all the medical stuff people like that do. Eventually, as the paramedics take up more space, Brian is crouched next to the metal-framed chair, which I discover, is bolted to the floor, his hand on my thigh in mute comfort. Every time I look at him, I want to cry all over again. Now, instead of being outraged by his lies, I'm ashamed, fucking ashamed of the ways I treated him back when we were still together. What the hell was my problem? I _am_ the difficult one if I can't see his goodness and how it's been directed at me almost from the beginning. Shit, he could've knocked me flat in so many ways, especially in those early days when I was stupid and naïve. But he never did. He was harsh sometimes, true, but every time that happened, he was trying to push me away from him because he thinks he's so evil, so bad. Fuck it. I'm not letting that happen again, no way. Let him push. I'm pushing back.   
  
The paramedics say I'm okay but they're a little concerned about all the head injuries I've had. But when I assure them this last time I didn't get hit in the head, they let me go with an order to eat, take some pain reliever for the headache I've got, and drink plenty of water. By then, Brian has found a second bottle of water, and located the bathroom I need to use. He's also been talking to Detective Horvath. "Okay, we're going to make a quick side trip to your favorite fast food place before we hit the police station," he tells me when he returns to where I'm now standing, stretching cramped muscles. "Your mom will meet us downtown." He smiles, that big, beautiful one that makes his eyes glow. "She's excited and so relieved."  
  
"Me too." I take the water from him, but lean forward, my lips capturing his as I wrap my arms around his neck, glad, so fuckin' glad, to once again be in his embrace.  
  
With his hands on my waist, he draws me closer and returns the kisses—deep, passionate, tender kisses that make me tingle all over. "Me three," he says when he pulls back and the line is so corny we grin at each. He touches my cheek, gently stroking. "Come on, Sunshine. Let's get you some burgers."


	27. Twenty-Seven

**Twenty-Seven: Tuesday, January 20-11:28 p.m.**

Brian and I are at the police station for hours. I identify Shark Eyes and Jaws who, I learn, are really Neil Sauer and Allan Walson when I pick them out of a line-up. I also have to debrief the police: tell them what happened, what I heard when those two goons talked, all that shit. Of course, while all of this is going on, I also have to deal with the huge, boisterous group that shows up to welcome me back: my mom, Debbie, Vic, Emmett, Ted, Linds, Mel, Gus, and even Ben. No Michael though, which is another thing Brian and I will have to deal with at some point. I know Michael's involvement in this mess has hurt him deeply, even though he'll deny it.  
  
Throughout all of it, Brian hovers by my side, never more than a few feet away, touching my back, holding my hand, his arm around my shoulders, watching over me in a silent, but protective way that just about kills me. It isn't until it's close to eleven that we're finished, and I'm allowed to go home. Brian puts his arm around my waist as we walk out the door. I wonder if I'll ever be let out of his sight again. Right now, though, that's not bothering me at all.  
  
Back at the loft, I look around just like I did Christmas morning when we returned from the ER. The sleek, hard lines of the Mies van der Rohe coffee table I'd first noticed the day I confronted Brian about my tuition. The gleaming black leather of his new Le Corbusier chairs. The soft sheen of the polished wooden floor. Now, though, I'm seeing things with my memory intact. I want to cry at all the trouble Brian went through to make me believe I lived here, especially with the redecorating he'd done and all the ways he had to scramble to answer my questions. Poor guy. He's so generous but people just don't see it … people like me. How'd I miss the fact that what he gave me was worth a thousand—a million times more than anything Ethan had to offer?   
  
"You want more to eat? A snack?" he asks after we've taken off our coats.   
  
"Brian, I ate three hamburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake." Leaning against him, my hand flat on his chest, I laugh. "Even for me, that's a lot."  
  
He rubs my back. "Yes, but since it's been more than twenty-four hours—"  
  
"What I'd really like to do is take a shower," I say as I look up at him with a slight smile. That's part of my plan, the one I formulated while I was still at the police station. Putting off telling Brian about my memory returning isn't a good idea because it looks like I'm avoiding the issue, out of fear, maybe. Up until now, what with the police, paramedics, and the family to deal with, it's probably been okay. But I need to do it as soon as possible and I want the conditions to be ideal. If I tell him at the wrong moment, he's going to distance himself, and assume the jig is up, that everything that's _us_ is imperiled. So, I have to show him that _us_ still exists even post-memory return, that we're strong, and we'll survive, that I've forgiven him for any lying he did. And, God, I hope, he's forgiven me for Ethan. Getting naked seems like a great first step.  
  
"A shower, huh? That's understandable." Tongue in cheek, Brian smiles. "I think I can manage that," he says, and reaches for my shirt.  
  
Mere minutes later, operating with his usual efficiency, he's stripped both of us and we're under the shower's warm spray getting soaked. "Ah, that feels so good," I say as I raise my face and let the water beat on me, the splashing, trickling sounds echoing in that small space a delight to my ears. "My muscles hurt."  
  
He pours citrus shampoo into his palms, which immediately infuses the moist air with a sweet aromatic scent. Then, taking his time, using firm strokes, he lathers my hair and rinses it. After that, he begins to soap me, working on loosening tight muscles as he does, his strong fingers kneading out the soreness as he goes methodically down my arms right out to my fingertips, along my shoulders and back, up my legs, even inside my thighs. Long before he reaches my dick, I'm hard and ready to go, but when Brian starts to kneel, I stop him. "No." With a smile, I take the soap and pause to give him a long kiss, water dribbling into our mouths when I flick out my tongue. Then I begin to soap him. A few minutes later, he's also squeaky clean, his cock bobbing in front of him with the same eager anticipation mine's shown. I hit the lever that shuts off the water and lean toward him, rubbing his wet back as our dicks reacquaint themselves with one another. "I'm too tired to do it standing," I explain as I nibble at his slippery neck, lapping Brian-flavored water off him. "Let's get in bed."  
  
"Of course."  
  
He grabs a towel as we step out and carefully pats me dry, his long fingers stroking my cock every once in awhile so that I can barely stay on my feet, my knees are shaking so hard. "I'm gonna come standing right here," I murmur, my arms around his neck, kissing along his collar bone, the hollow at the base of his neck, his Adam's apple. God, I just can't get enough of him.  
  
"We don't want that." Brian dries himself off quickly and throws aside the towel then takes my hand and leads me to the bed. Laying me down with great care, he scoots close, giving me one of those long stares he seems to enjoy lately. His hazel eyes are dark with lust, his tongue poking just slightly between his lips, his hair in beautiful disarray. Just looking at him, my heart beats faster. Then he works on my mouth, his tongue counting my teeth, one hand behind my neck to hold me steady while he runs the other down my side to my thigh and back in a gentle tease. While he's doing this, I get a good grip on his shoulders and hang on, returning the kisses with a great deal of shaking intensity. The passion level jumps so significantly we're both trembling, our legs wrapped around one another as we lick and kiss and make growling noises. Fuck! It's like we want to crawl inside each other's skin. Fortunately, there's something we can do about _that_.   
  
Neither of us says a word because we're already communicating in a way that's crystal clear. I roll a condom on him; he uses the lube to prepare me. When I move to turn over, though, he stops me. "No." With a soft push, I'm on my back and he's bending my legs until I'm doubled, smiling down at me as he puts them on his shoulders, rubbing my thighs, his hands roaming over my cock then back up my legs. "I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and husky. "Keep your eyes open, okay? I want to look at you."  
  
The idea that he wants to watch me makes me groan. Releasing the grip I've had on the sheets, I pull on his hips to urge him forward when I feel the rounded head of his cock. "God, Brian! Do it—do it, now!"  
  
As he makes his initial push, and I feel that momentary nip of pain, the world and all its cares disappear. We are joined and an urgent, overwhelming desire takes me to the place where Brian and I live, where we are _us_ and there are no fights or Mafia guys or missing technology or lies. Rocking with him, I suck on his tongue when it slides into my mouth, my breathing accelerating, my fingers carding through his hair. I reposition my legs to lock around his body, my ankles cross, and I'm repeating his name as I lift my hips up so he can go deeper. He stares at me and I stare back, my eyes opened although intense stabs of pleasure make me close them occasionally. Each time I do, I remember what he asked, and look at him again, surprised by the slight smile on his face. Fuck, he's getting off on _my_ getting off! Then I laugh, he laughs with me, we both groan, and somehow we're having fun and lost in the sensations, both at the same time. All of the fear and concerns of the last few hours pour out of us and before long, sweaty and nearly screaming, we both come, hanging onto each other for dear life.  
  
Brian falls onto me and we lay there for a long moment of heavy breathing, our bodies plastered together. "That was fucking hot," he whispers at my ear, his breath tickling me. "Not at all what I expected."  
  
He means it was so different than the night Ethan surprised us, when we made love in such a slow, sensual fashion. That, I know, is my cue because already I can feel the lethargy that's stealing over me and realize I don't have much time before I start to fall asleep. "I couldn't wait. I needed to feel you all over, every part of you on every part of me," I say against his cheek, raking back his damp hair. "When I was tied up, I just wanted to get back to you, to us. And that … it felt like that's what I was doing."  
  
He rolls off me, discards the condom, and lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I know he's thinking about the whole situation and he's probably wondering when it's going to end. "Carla was here … while you were gone," he says finally, like he knows he's supposed to make conversation. Not that he normally does, but this is a special situation.  
  
I turn on my side, toward him, hand propping my head. Okay, I can't be a wuss about this. I have to tell him. "She was? To keep you company?"  
  
He snorts, frowning, but it's done with something suspiciously close to affection. "To give me advice."  
  
Running my hand down his arm, I smile. "She's good for that."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
_Stop procrastinating_! I tangle my legs with Brian's as my arm crosses his chest. I can't put him in a headlock, but I sure as shit can restrain him. "Brian?" I lean close, giving him a brief kiss. "I'm falling asleep."  
  
"That's good. Why don't you—?"  
  
"I need to tell you something." Again, I give him a kiss, suddenly afraid. I take a deep breath. "Brian, my memory … I got it back."  
  
He becomes very still. Staring up at me, I see the warmth drain from his face. "When did that happen?" he asks in a voice that's flat.  
  
"When I was … back at that house."  
  
"So when we found you—"  
  
"I knew."  
  
The first traces of anger flicker in his eyes. "And yet you said nothing. What did you think? That you'd wait for a moment when you could really—"  
  
Feeling his muscles tense, I lean on him. "I wanted to show you that it doesn't change anything for me." I sound shaky because that's how I feel. Is all of it going to blow up in my face? Is that really a possibility?   
  
"It's not that easy."  
  
"Sure it is." When he tries to move, I press him down again. "Stay here, please. Don't queen on me."  
  
"I don't queen."  
  
"Sure you do, just like me. That's what I did when I realized you deceived me. I freaked out. But I did it while I was tied up and I was able to get through it that way."  
  
"So you think I'm going to let you hold me here because now it's _my_ turn to be restrained?" His words are clipped, abrupt.  
  
"Yes." I try to kiss him, but he turns his head. "Brian, please. It's okay. We can … whatever issues we need to work out, we'll do that. Why should we throw away the last month just because of our past problems?"  
  
"As usual, you're living in fantasyland, Justin. Reality doesn't work that way."  
  
"Oh, and what? Reality is tough and mean and nasty and we should just fight and hiss at each other like a couple of scrawny cats? Over what? Things we've done wrong, things we regret?"  
  
"I don't regret anything."  
  
I stare at him. "Really?" But, shit, why am I questioning him? I _know_ he regrets a lot of things, he's just hanging onto that old Brian Kinney mantra: no excuses, no apologies, no regrets. Except that I know it's bullshit. "I don't believe that."  
  
He won't look at me. "Believe what you want."  
  
"What should I have done? Started yelling at you the moment I saw you?" I take his chin and _make_ him look at me. "I was overjoyed to see you. I wanted to give us that moment." My voice drops. "I wasn't mad at you. I'm not now. I just want you to know and I-I want us to go on."  
  
His eyes look dark and fathomless as he stares at me. "Everything that's happened …"  
  
"Brian, we've gotten a second chance." I feel the tears in my eyes and know I'm reaching my limit, the events of the last day—fuck, of the last _month_ —catching up to me. I'm so tired, but we have to get this settled, somehow. "How often do people get a second chance? Can't we take it?"   
  
"Shit, Justin, we've had many chances—why is this any different? Maybe tonight you feel the way you do because of all that's happened, but it won't stay that way, you know it won't." He pushes against me. "Let me up."  
  
"No." I lean harder, pushing him back onto the bed. "We have to figure this out."  
  
"How the hell do we do that? You're not going to forget all the shit we went through. And I—" He stops.  
  
"You're not going to forget either?" I ask him softly. "Or forgive me?"  
  
"There's nothing to forgive."  
  
"Sure there is. I hurt you and you hurt me."  
  
His eyes are fixed on something in the distance. "I wasn't hurt."  
  
"Right, and the sun doesn't come up every morning."  
  
"Cut it out!" He bucks against me, weakly. "Let me go!"  
  
"Go ahead, push me off!" My voice rises, but I try to hold him down. "You know you can do it. I'm not strong enough to stop you. Just push me away … _again_." The tears in my eyes spill onto my cheeks as I say the words, but I don't bother wiping them away. Our faces set, we stare into one another's eyes for a long moment. "Why do we have to be condemned to go down a certain path just because we both fucked up at one time or another?" I say to him, my voice as shaky as I feel. "If it's _our_ lives aren't we allowed to alter the path we take? We're not slaves to our past and we … we've had something, a wonderful something. Let's keep that. Let's throw out the rest." I caress his cheek, frightened by the hardness in his expression. "Brian … please."  
  
His eyes glitter as they fix on me, his face still impassive, set in lines that remind me of the "old" Brian, the one I met on Liberty that night. Is he actually going to do this? I'm just starting to think it's true when a tiny smile melts the frown from his face. "So … what you're saying is that you want us to behave like grown-ups?"  
  
With great excitement, I nod. "We can do that, can't we? We've been through so much shit, so much pain. It ought to be one hell of a motivator, don't you think? I know we'll still yell and fight and stomp around, but as long as we've got _us_ it'll be all right, won't it?"  
  
He cups my face with his hand, warm fingers caressing as he wipes the tears under one eye with his thumb. "You're right. _Us_ is a good motivator." He shifts under me, trying to look grumpy. "Now stop trying to audition for the WWF, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
With a sigh, I release my hold on him and collapse against his chest, my relief palpable. "Thanks," I say to him quietly, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.   
  
"This doesn't mean there won't be rough moments."  
  
"I know. I said that." I raise my head to give him a look. "I'm not that naïve."  
  
He snorts. "Tell me about it, Mr. Romance-and-Flowers."  
  
I gently hit his arm. "Shut up." But I'm smiling as I lay my head back on his chest.  
  
"So … does this mean you're staying?" he asks as he strokes my hair.  
  
"Staying?"  
  
"Here?"  
  
Oh, fuck. I hadn't thought about where I'm going to live. "I-I guess that's up to you. I could … Debbie said I could stay with her and Vic, or at least, that's what she told me about a month ago when—"  
  
"You can stay," he whispers so softly I almost miss it.  
  
Now I'm the one who doesn't move, afraid if I do he might change his mind. "I can?"  
  
"You've been here for a fucking month already. I'm used to the dirty underwear underfoot and the wet towels on my hardwood floors."  
  
"I don't leave wet towels—"  
  
"Stay," he says again, just as soft. "Okay? I want you to stay. I like you here."  
  
The tears are rolling again. "Okay." Shit, I'm staying? That's what's going to happen?   
  
"Go to sleep." Brian nuzzles the top of my head, looking for a good spot, and then kisses there, pulling me into a closer embrace as he does. "Being kidnapped and tied up can really take it out of a guy."  
  
I laugh, sputtering my thanks.  
  
"And cut that out. We're adults now, remember? Adults don't cry."  
  
I could be mistaken and I wouldn't dare raise my head to see, but he's sounding a little teary-eyed himself. My eyes close. "Okay, we'll talk more tomorrow."  
  
"Right."  
  
"But later in the day. I want to sleep in."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"After breakfast."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
I feel myself slipping away, my body relaxing, my mouth slightly opened. "Brian," I just manage to say. "I love you. You know that, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah." A soothing silence envelops us for a long moment, and then Brian stirs. "Me too, Sunshine" he whispers into the night. "Me too."


	28. Epilogue

  
Author's notes: I'd really appreciate it if you'd tell me what you thought of this story! Should I write more like this? Stick to my day job? What? :)  


* * *

**Epilogue-Sunday, February 1- late afternoon**

Justin insists that I go with him when he meets the fiddler at a coffee shop on the PIFA campus. . It's just short of two weeks since we went through all that shit with him being kidnapped and getting his memory back and, despite the storybook ending we appeared to have that night, it's had its ups and downs. Justin says we're both artistic people and fags to boot, so what did I expect? Of course, I expected it to all implode … well, part of me did. I think there's another part—the _us_ part—that now wants everything to work out. Not with the hearts and flowers bullshit, but just that we can live together for however long and enjoy one another. I love being with him. Is that really so hard to admit and am I that "emotionally stunted" that I can't? Okay, maybe I'm getting a little better with that stuff. We'll see. And Justin says he can tell that I love him, that I show it by my actions. I'm not sure what _that_ means.   
  
Anyway, we've had a couple of heated discussions and one rather loud fight, so Justin, being the emotionally intelligent one, came up with a plan. I know he's smart about this stuff, but it amuses me when he has these naïve ideas that are supposed to fix everything. But Carla says give the boy a chance, he has good ideas, he's creative—like I don't know that already. So, the plan is that we confront some of our demons and kick them in the balls, demolishing them by whatever means necessary. Ergo, we're on our way to meet Ethan, who is still trying to contact Justin, albeit in a much less intrusive way, via voicemail and email messages. This ought to be fun.  
  
"Now, you're not going to intimidate him, right?" Justin says, like he's reading my thoughts, taking a final slurp from the Coke he grabbed just before we left Tremont. The little fucker. He's wearing the new red hoodie I bought him. Not one of those cheap ones from The Gap, but a Ralph Lauren that's cashmere. Of course, he looks fabulous. He didn't want to accept it, but I told him it was a very belated birthday present. That, of course, turned him into an instant eight-year-old, jumping and grinning and grabbing my neck.  
  
The things I have to do to get him properly dressed.  
  
"Me? Intimidate him? I'm a pussycat," I say, giving him my most wicked expression.  
  
"Yeah, there's nothing pussy about you." Justin throws back a smoldering look that makes me think of the last couple of nights. Fuck, are we ever going to stop being so freakin' turned on by one another? When you fuck someone repeatedly, shouldn't you get bored, shouldn't it be predictable? Justin's not predictable and he's even hotter today than he was last week. I don't get it. "But promise me, okay, Brian? I just want to look him in the eye and tell him it's over. And I want you to be there when I do."  
  
Knowing Ian, it won't be that simple. "Yeah, I'll keep my hands in my pockets." My tongue's in my cheek when I say it, but Justin knows I'd like to punch the fuckin' fiddler at least once, just for the hell of it. "Don't worry," I tell him when I see how skeptical he looks. "He's already pathetic. I can't make that any worse."  
  
"Speaking of pathetic, we're still going to Ben and Michael's tomorrow night, right?"  
  
As I turn into PIFA and look for a guest parking lot, I'm thinking how much Justin is on a roll with this shit. The Michael thing, though, isn't one I'm so keen on. "I suppose."  
  
"Brian …"  
  
I raise an eyebrow as I turn into the lot and find a spot. The Jeep in park, I pull the key from the ignition and face Justin. We've had a couple of "talks" about Michael. My own personal shrink, Dr. Taylor, says you don't fucking walk away from a long, important friendship because of someone's mistaken judgment. That's what he's calling Michael's _theft_ of the Mystik. "I said I'd go, didn't I?" I ask, sounding grumpy even to my ears.  
  
"Brian, we've been over this." Justin is giving me the blue-eyed Stare of Wise Compassion, a look meant to show how much he understands my feelings, but he also wants to be a bit tough-love-ish about the whole fuckin' drama. "He was completely fooled. If Darryl Mattera's _brother_ was the one who took over management of Michael's building to put the squeeze on him, and the lawyer Michael trusted with the lawsuit that was supposedly filed was Mattera's accomplice—if _both_ of them were in on the scheme, how can you blame him?" He shakes his head. "I still can't believe they went through such an elaborate set-up just to get Michael to the place of being desperate for money."  
  
I pat his cheek. "My naïve little artiste."   
  
"Yeah, not anymore. I'm the one who almost got snuffed, remember?"  
  
Instantly, I sober. "Yeah." Then I have to lean forward and give him a long kiss that tastes like the Coke he just finished, our hands interlocking as we do. "I remember."  
  
He smiles as we separate, hanging onto one hand, gently squeezing. "Don't throw away a friendship that's worked for you all these years. Michael wasn't charged. The Sap, both Mattera brothers, good old Shark Eyes and Jaws, the lawyer, Clayton Dowler, the CEO of Brogla—they were all charged. Some of them are _still_ in jail. What he did was stupid, but you know how he feels, Brian. He's fucking devastated."  
  
It strikes me as strange that Justin's the one defending Michael. Of course, they've always had their differences, but that's not what I mean. Whenever I had a problem, in the past, it was _Michael_ who talked with me, Michael who sorted it out, who nagged, cajoled, fussed until I got it fixed. He was the one defending Ted or Emmett or whoever had pissed me off. That was his job, right? That's what best friends do. Now, though, something has changed, something's shifted. Now Justin seems to have that place in my life. I'm not sure how that happened. I'm not even sure why. All I know is it's working for me. Realizing he's still waiting for an answer, I give him a dramatic sigh, dropping his hand so I can flip one of the ties on his hoodie. "All right, we'll go have tofu-bean sprout-wheat grass soup or whatever the fuck horror Ben's preparing. I'll make nice."  
  
"Good." He grins then kisses my nose. "Come on, darling. Let's go meet the ex!"  
  
Shaking my head, I follow him. Happy to see him in such good spirits, I make no comment about his silly remark, one that's come about, no doubt, because of all our talk about the nature of our relationship. I found out a few interesting things during those conversations too. Like, Justin never enjoyed playing the Game. Okay, that's not quite true. Justin is a very sexual person—God knows, I see that on display 24/7. He's one of the few people who can keep up with _me_. So, doing threesomes and foursomes in the backroom of Babylon, the baths, the loft—he could do that, and get off every time. But, as he told me when we did our "get out the demons" thing, it's not something he enjoys, except on those rare occasions.   
  
That led to a lot of anger, I'll admit it. I became convinced he was about to ask me when we'd get our very own pretty little rings, when we'd have our commitment ceremony, and pull out those matching Vera Wangs, when I'd start calling him "baby" or something just as ludicrous. But after the blow up, after many angry words, I calmed down and managed to listen. He wasn't advocating monogamy. He knew I'd continue to trick, and admitted he probably would too, at least once in awhile. He just doesn't want the trick in our space; he doesn't like coming home, worrying all the while that some guy was being fucked on the couch. Yeah, it was the return of the zucchini man, but, shit, I can see that. It didn't make sense to me before, which is odd, since now it does. He wants a little respect. He's not trying to make me into something I'm not. In fact, he told me he knows what he can expect from me, and he won't be surprised by what I do. And even more odd: I believe him.  
  
Strangely, Justin hasn't demanded any of the things I thought he would: flowers, candy, picnics on the floor, all that romantic bullshit. He doesn't even want the three little words, although he says I gave him two of them that night we came back from the police station. At first, I wanted to pretend like that didn't happen, but in the end, yeah, I admitted it. If "me too" makes Justin smile, I can do that. Maybe even some day I'll be able to say the other words. God knows, he deserves them.  
  
In the coffee shop, the air is redolent with the aroma of—no, not coffee—the sweet pastries I see displayed behind glass at one side of the cash register. We both see Ian right away, sitting at a table in one corner, looking hunched over and small. Justin gives me a look then walks over to him. "Hi."  
  
He raises his head, sees Justin, and then sees me. "You brought him along?"  
  
"Justin insisted," I say with a sweet smile.  
  
His eyes go wide and that little tuft of hair on his chin seems to wiggle as he makes a face. "Justin, I thought we were really going to talk."  
  
Justin crosses his arms over his chest and gives Ian a look that would drop a fly at fifty paces. "I only have one thing to say to you, Ethan. No, wait. Two things." He takes a step closer, glaring down at the man. "What you did by coming to the loft and trying to undermine Brian—"  
  
Ian springs to his feet, so I move closer, behind Justin, giving the little asshole my best glower. He steps back, gaze on me. "I knew he was lying to you, Justin. I was just trying—"  
  
"He was doing what the doctor asked him to do, you fuckin' idiot!" Justin tells him, his voice rising. "You were endangering me and my health, but you really didn't give a fuck about that, did you? You just thought you could take advantage of the situation and get your 'muse' back."  
  
"That's not what I—"  
  
"Yes, it is. You knew I wouldn't remember that you were a lying sack of shit who cheated on me after declaring his 'undying love.'" He makes quote marks in the air. "Well, I can remember now, Ethan, and the second thing I want to say is this: get lost! It's over. Don't call me, don't e-mail me, don't IM me. I'm back with Brian and we love each other and that's _not_ going to change. But you know what? Even if it did, you will never, ever be in the running so get over yourself and move on."   
  
Justin turns on his heel and walks away.  
  
For a second, Ian and I stare at one another. "Okay," I say finally and give him my best grin. "Have a nice life and don't, uh, feel too bad. He's way too good for you."  
  
"I suppose you think you're good enough for Justin?" he sneers, balling up his fists, trying to look macho and tough.  
  
I give him one last look. "No one's good enough for him," I say. Then I turn to follow Justin out the door.  
  
Back in the car, we head for our next destination in silence. "You … all right?" I ask finally because isn't that what a non-conventional, non-defined boyfriend/partner is supposed to do?   
  
"Yeah. That felt good."  
  
"I'm a little surprised. Weren't you telling _me_ to be nice?"  
  
"Yeah." His beautiful lips curve into a wide smile. "Because I wanted to be the one to blast him."  
  
I nod. That makes sense. "You did a great job. He looked shell-shocked."  
  
"Good. Maybe he'll think twice the next time he wants a relationship with someone."  
  
The word "relationship" always makes me wince, but interestingly, I'm not doing nearly as much wincing these days. Maybe I am becoming way too lesbionic. Still, I decide maybe it time to change the subject. "So …" I grab my sunglasses from their place on the visor and put them on. " How're you feeling about accepting Christian's proposition?"  
  
"You mean, do I feel like I'm selling myself to the devil?"  
  
"You did have a few concerns."  
  
"I think … what he said to me the other day, I think that's true. The Mystik can be used for good and it was, in my case. It might not be his major market, but like you said, some people will buy it for reasons other than it's a great business tool. They might want to monitor themselves or their children ... or be able to prove something really happened, solve a mystery, like I did. That sort of thing. Plus, I guess my story creates interest."  
  
Christian liked the idea when I presented it to him although Justin thinks it was the other way around. The main market for the Mystik, of course, is still business folks, and we've already got that campaign laid out. But I realized that, if I could get Justin's consent, we had a great human interest story: Justin's strange journey, the one that began when he hit his head in Michael's store, the one that ended in that house on Cartland when the police rescued him. And along with that story, a scheme that slowly unraveled thanks to the Mystik.   
  
After talking with Vance, we realized that Justin's story needed to _begin_ the campaign rather than follow the sexier, flashier one we'd planned. So, I suggested we do a mini-documentary, using Justin and a few of the other key players in the drama, shooting some footage at the bus terminal, that fuckin' apartment building on Collins, the room where we ultimately found Justin. He would be interviewed, of course, along with his mom, a few others like Horvath, maybe even Carla. It's funny, but at first, Christian thought we ought to use actors and tell the story as a docu-drama without any real people involved. Then I e-mailed him a picture of Justin. Once he got a look at the boy's blue-eyed-blond-angelic good looks he never mentioned actors again.   
  
Eventually, we settled on the idea of short one-minute spots that were mostly Justin talking about what happened inter-cut with other people and scenes. Each one would end with the Mystik name and logo. Justin would hold the Mystik at key moments—shots of his hand, his fingers gripping the thing—but no explanation other than what he was saying. It'd make people crazy, trying to figure out what the device is, what had happened. Of course, we'll use a first-class production company to put the thing together along with a director who'll give it the right amount of dramatic impact. It will create buzz. Christian loved the idea and wanted to offer Justin a shit-load of money to become the company's spokesperson. That's when I finally let him in on my thinking.   
  
I didn't try to influence Justin, though. He'd been through a lot and if he didn't want to do it, the whole thing would end right there. I knew he could use the cash, which ran into six figures, but still … it was his call. It was only after he'd made the decision to go along with the idea that I suggested two things he might want to do with the money.   
  
And one of them _wasn't_ paying me back either.  
  
"It's going to be cool to set up a studio," Justin says, intruding into my thoughts, an eager smile lighting up his face. And, yeah, that was one of the two things.  
  
"Your mom already has a couple of good leads, I hear."  
  
"She does. And one of them isn't too far from the loft."  
  
"That's good." I flash him a smile. "I can come over and have my way with you whenever I want."  
  
We turn onto Oakley, where Carla lives, and, not too far down the street, I pull into 2356, a modest, two-story brick house with a good-sized front porch. "I hope he's settled in," Justin says as he opens the Jeep's door. He grabs several bulging plastic bags from the back. And, yeah, that's the _second_ I suggested he do with his money. Shop.   
  
But not for himself.  
  
"You think you bought enough?" I ask as I join him, but I'm only teasing.  
  
"He's got school and lots of homework—he needs supplies, plus a guy has to have clothes," Justin says immediately, defensive before he catches my face. "You—"  
  
The front door of the house opens and Thaddeus comes out with Carla trailing just behind him. I still can't believe we managed to bust that sleaze of a pimp, get the kid out of that situation, _and_ get him placed with Carla, all in such a short time. Of course, the placement is only temporary until his hearing, although there's really nothing keeping her and Quinton from becoming his permanent foster parents. I have to thank Carl Horvath for that because I'm sure he pulled some strings.  
  
With all his curly black hair and big eyes, he's a cute kid. Already, he's looking a lot better than he did a week ago now that he's eating Carla's cooking and not being knocked around by Mitch, who'll be spending a lot of quality time in the county jail. "Hi," I say, smiling at him, though he lowers his eyes immediately.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hey, he doesn't bite," Justin says as he comes up to the boy, giving him a gentle elbow in the ribs.  
  
"Don't you be big-brothering him to death," Carla says immediately, those red-tipped fingernails flashing as her hands go to her hips. "What'd you do, buy out the store? I mean, my goodness, you've already given him—"  
  
"It's just a few things." Justin gives me an accusatory look like Carla and I planned our words. He shoves one of the bags in Thaddeus's hands. "Come on. I'll show you … inside." Together, they walk into the house.  
  
I remove my sunglasses. "So, how's it going?" I ask Carla, wondering again at her decision to take on yet another foster child, not to mention one with this boy's history. His one "caring" family member left alive is the uncle who first got him involved in prostitution. "Justin told me his tests all came back negative."  
  
"Thank God for that." Carla folds her arms over her chest. "He's been through a lot, but I think he's going to be fine."  
  
"Thaddeus?"  
  
She laughs. "Yeah, I guess you could say that about both of them." Then she sobers. "It's great, what Justin's doing, helping him out like this, although I think he's going to run out of closet space soon."  
  
"He brought stuff for the other kids too."  
  
"He's a generous young man." She cocks and eyebrow at me. "You too."  
  
"I didn't do anything."  
  
"Except loan Justin the money until his Mystik contract starts bringing in the big bucks."  
  
I shrug. "It's only money."  
  
"Money that's helping out a boy who's had more than his share of hard knocks. If you don't watch out, Brian, people will start to think you're a softie."  
  
"Shit." I look around the unpretentious neighborhood where Carla and Quinton live, thinking how much it reminds me of my childhood. "Hard knocks make you tough and you need to be tough to survive this world," I say to her finally.  
  
"You just keep telling yourself that, big guy." Carla pats my arm. "Now come on inside, my beef stroganoff is almost ready."  
  
"I'll be there in a minute," I say as I head back to the car to return the sunglasses to their place on the visor. I lock the Jeep, but then stand there, studying this quiet suburban neighborhood as dusk approaches, the smell of wood smoke hanging in the air. I think about everything that's happened, wondering why it seems like it's ended well. Can that be true? A fairytale ending? Well, not exactly. There's a lot of hard work ahead, keeping things between Justin and I from going into another nosedive, finding studio space and getting Justin set up there so he can work his magic, firing up and launching this multi-million dollar ad campaign, spending the millions it's going to make, getting Justin through school, even, I guess, patching up things with Mikey. And now, apparently, helping a fifteen-year-old former prostitute to grow up.   
  
Shit. Life was a lot simpler without Justin around, wasn't it? How the fuck did I end up in the middle of so much domesticity?  
  
"Brian?" Suddenly, Justin is there, coming to put an arm around my waist.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Nothing." He goes up on his toes to give me a soft kiss that just brushes my lips. "I missed you, that's all."  
  
Yeah. Exactly. _That's_ how.   
  
"Let's go inside." I slide a hand around his neck and kiss him again, knowing I'll soon get tired of doing it … surely somewhere around the billionth kiss. "It's cold out here."  
  
Justin hugs me to his side, saying nothing, as we head indoors.

 

 


End file.
